


Music in the Dark

by Demon Dreams (ScribeAzari)



Series: Lost and Found [2]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hearing Voices, Loss of Humanity, Making The Best of a Bad Situation, Maybe Hallucinations Maybe Real, Or trying to, Sammy makes some poor decisions, Some hurt/comfort, Stress, canon-typical corpses, missing fingers, pre-game, recent transformation, tags will update as chapters are added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 31,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeAzari/pseuds/Demon%20Dreams
Summary: Waking disoriented and apparently alone in the studio, Sammy finds that things have changed for the weirder - much weirder - and so has he. With everything around so warped and strange, is it really so bad to follow the whispers?





	1. Breathless

He awoke in darkness, a low groan escaping - it was hard to say for sure what exactly had happened. The situation had already been getting way out of hand, people leaving left and right - or vanishing, according to some of the more insidious rumours whispered while Joey wasn't listening. Nothing was getting done on time any more, tempers boiling and frustrations snapping to the surface. What had come between that and the quiet that now held sway over the once-bustling studio?

His head ached… perhaps something had fallen on it? The old place hadn’t been in the best of states since Joey’d had those wretched pipes installed… Had a pipe burst? ...Several pipes? It’d be just his luck if he’d been left behind after some kind of incident sent everyone home early…

Something was very not right about this… he felt _strange,_ and somewhat chilled. He’d reasoned away the darkness of his vision as poor lighting, the hour being late, but that still didn’t explain why nobody would have woken him - or at least taken him to the hospital. Why _was_ he still there? Hadn’t anyone noticed him?

There was ink _everywhere_ \- just as he’d thought, clearly some pipes had burst. To his disgust, it seemed that he was covered in the stuff as well, explaining the uncomfortable cold oozy feeling. Eurgh, had one of the pipes burst right over him? There was too much to simply wipe off in one go, so if he wanted anything approaching a decent wash he’d have to find a sink and hope it was in working order.

Why was walking, of all things, so difficult? It felt as though he was straining to move properly for a while there. Maybe it was an after effect of having passed out or something? He resolved to seek medical attention as soon as he managed to get out of the studio, especially as he noticed he seemed to have some form of tinnitus forming a constant, whispering background noise.

Where were his _fingers?_ He hadn’t noticed at first, distracted by his pursuit of a way to wash himself, but opening doors on his way, his gaze had fallen on his hand. A hand that, like the other, was quite pointedly missing its smallest finger. He hadn’t even _felt_ pain there - but his little fingers were _gone!_

Trembling and aghast, he needed a moment. Slumping into the nearest chair, he stared at his hands as if willing his missing digits to somehow grow back. Stubbornly, they remained quite absent, and his mind whirled. What if the ink was getting into his finger stumps and poisoning him? Why couldn’t he feel the stumps? Why were his fingers  _gone_ in the first place? What if he was actually still unconscious in a hospital bed, and this was just a bizarre nightmare?

If it _was_ a nightmare, it was a very vivid one. He could feel every moment of his dragging footfall when he rose from his chair again, and anything he touched remained stubbornly solid. Okay, okay, he was panicking. He needed to calm down. Maybe if he took a few moments to just take some slow, deep breaths... He wasn’t breathing. _He wasn’t breathing._

His head swimming, panic thrummed through him like a violin played far too sharp, far too loudly. He took a gulp of air, as if that would change things. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed himself breathing before? Maybe it really was just an unconscious hallucination - but what if it wasn’t? He hadn’t been breathing, but his lungs hadn’t been burning. _What was going on?_

The automatic rhythm of air in, air out had singularly failed to restart, even with his frantic attempts. The moment he stopped trying, he stopped breathing again. Dread crept through him like centipedes made of ice, trailing tiny pinpricks of unease all through his body. What if he _hadn’t_ survived whatever had clobbered him over the head? Had he been left behind because he was _dead?_

He’d never really been a big believer in things like undeath or supernatural forces, seeing himself as quite a down to earth kind of guy. However, there was a _lot_ of weirdness going on right now that he didn’t know how to explain. Hand trembling, he felt his chest, searching for any hint of a pulse. There! Faint, and slower than he’d have expected in his frantic state, but definitely there! If he had a pulse, he _couldn’t_ be dead, right? The relief was staggering - but he still didn’t understand what was going on, or why he wasn’t breathing.

Never mind finding water to wash with now - he had far too much to deal with on top of all the ink he was covered with. Grabbing from a waste paper bin nearby, he tried to scrub off at least some of the ink from himself so he wouldn’t have to feel so _slimy_ while he tried to figure things out. That, and to hopefully clean his stumps.

There were no stumps. As the crumpled paper rasped against him, getting rid of surface ooze, he discovered that his hands seemed to curve naturally into a three-fingered state - as if he’d never had little fingers. _What?_ Not only that, but he couldn’t seem to get through to any skin. A less drippy coating that at least didn't feel as oozy and clammy, yes, but no further - and rubbing too hard hurt.

Dizzied by stress, he couldn’t make sense of what he was discovering. He didn’t feel safe. There were strange sounds in the quiet, too, not just the whispering in his ears. Gooey sounds. He didn’t like that, not one bit. A pressing need to hide welling up in him, he changed course, dropping the papers back into the bin and rushing to open up his sanctuary.  
  
Even his _toilet_ was full of ink. He did feel marginally safer in his sanctuary, even though his situation hadn’t really changed, but he couldn’t hold back his incredulity. Sighing - and wondering how _that_ came so naturally without breath - he sat himself down on his stool and reached for his banjo. Hopefully, a bit of music would help him to calm down, even if it _did_ mean one more thing to clean.


	2. Gathering Wits

The sanctuary was quiet again, when his fingers fell still against the taut strings and smooth wood of his banjo, but not silent. There were pipes even here, faint gurgles of ink filling up the silence as he sighed and set his instrument aside to lean on the drawing table beside him. Normally, at this point, he’d be uncomfortably aware of the ever-present inky odour from the pipes – perhaps there was some benefit to not breathing after all. It was a faintly strained thought, but the humour of it helped a little.  
  
There was one of those little plush toys on the table – when had that gotten there? He wasn’t entirely sure when he’d put it there, but it was familiar. Picking up the little cloth demon, he stared at it for a while, rubbing a thumb against the soft fuzz of its fabric thoughtfully. The texture was familiar, too – ah, that was right, this had been one of the first run of the dolls, given out to the senior employees as some kind of thank you gimmick. He’d complained to this one a lot, when he needed to take a break and vent without losing his temper with someone. He was almost sure he’d rambled to it about ideas he’d had, too, while he was working out their issues. ...Why hadn’t he remembered right away?  
  
Quite unsurprisingly, he could feel a headache coming on. He made to pinch the bridge of his nose, sighing – but his nose wasn’t there. He’d only just calmed down - what _now?_ He considered pretending that he hadn’t noticed - that none of this was happening. It didn’t even feel like quite as sudden a shock as his missing fingers had, a sort of empty, dizzy numbness buzzing in his head. It was hard to grapple with this already, and he was becoming sure that there was more he had yet to realise.

“Why is this happening?” He whispered hoarsely, a part of him faintly relieved to hear his own voice. He didn’t expect a reply, and he received none, just the ever present background gurgling and the ringing whispers of his tinnitus. There was an insistent, stinging sort of ache around his eyes - he shut them tightly, deliberately taking long, slow breaths. Even if that didn’t come as naturally any more, it was still calming, still a familiar anchor.

He tightened his grip on the plush to keep his hand from shaking. If he couldn’t get a grip on himself, how was he going to get anything done? He had _no_ intention of simply giving up and retreating into himself. Slowly, surely, he was able to gather himself once again, relaxing his grip. His eyes opened stickily, as if sleep-gummed, still aching as he set the toy back down on the table.

Perhaps he’d better get this over with, get all the surprises out of his system while he was safe and hidden. Hidden from what, he wasn’t sure, but still. He’d be better able to handle any dangerously damaged areas if he wasn’t coming to pieces each time he noticed something that he’d lost. The thought itself hurt - these kinds of discoveries sent shivers jangling through him like windchimes in winter, and here he was trying to think of them in terms of practicality - but for all he knew, his survival might depend on keeping himself together when he did venture out. Things were already weird enough that he could believe he’d be in real danger out there.

Slowly, he reached up to feel his face, trying to wipe away the ink that clung to him. As he’d thought, his nose wasn’t the last unexplained victim of whatever the hell was happening to him. His ears had completely vanished, where before they’d stuck out a little - how was he even hearing things without them? No eyebrows either, he noticed - and he couldn’t even find his mouth until he opened it. Did he even have much of a face left? He doubted even he would recognise himself now.

He wanted to stop - each new discovery only hammered in further that there was something fundamentally wrong with him, details building up with more consistency and real sensation than even a vivid dream. He couldn’t, though. Not if he really wanted to know, to be prepared. A pang of loss tugged at him as his hands ventured to his scalp - he should have expected it by now, but somehow he’d hoped that there’d be _some_ vestige of himself left. He felt vain and foolish for missing the golden-brown waves of hair he’d grown used to, when he was missing far more important parts of himself too, but it still felt as though a shred of his identity had been torn away from him.

Aware that his features wouldn’t just re-emerge under his touch, he lowered his hands, trying to wipe the goo from the rest of him. As he did so, he discovered that for some strange reason, his clothes didn’t seem to be under the ink - but the shape of his shoes remained. He was just… a bare, inky figure, like a fleshed out stickman or something. Well, at least this gave him a goal that might just be achievable - finding some clothes. If not his, then maybe some of the spares people’d started to bring in after the ink spills had begun to get bad.

Did he really want to go back out there? He was safe in his sanctuary… It was unnerving seeing how inhospitable the studio looked now, and he hadn’t forgotten those gooey noises from before. He was no longer sure he was the only one who’d been left behind, uneasy tingles greeting the thought of stepping out unprepared. However, what was he going to achieve cooped up in one place? If there was a way to regain what he’d lost - and he _had_ to believe that there could be - he wasn’t going to find it by cowering in his den like a mouse from a cat.  
  
What did he need? If he was going to do this, he needed a plan. Clothes, he’d already mulled over - he could search for clothes, but what else? Food? He didn’t _breathe,_ but he still had a pulse, so maybe he still needed to eat and drink. The only ways to find out were to wait it out or to find food and water, and he knew which option he preferred. Then, when he was dressed and fed, maybe he’d be in better shape to make his way to the exit? With that hopeful thought in mind, he steadied himself and opened up his sanctuary to step out.


	3. Strike Up The Band

His nerves jangling as his soft footfall joined the almost-silence of the recording studio, Sammy peered around. He wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know what else there might be in the ruin the place had become, but he had a feeling it might be important. He’d spent so many hours in this place, learned it inside and out - hell, he’d been here often enough for it to almost feel like home - but the empty quiet lent it an entirely different character.

That wasn’t actually all that unusual, he told himself as he stepped cautiously onward. Even one’s own home could take on an eerie cast when the lights were low and things were too hushed, especially when alone. Knowing that didn’t make it less creepy, though not when he _couldn't_ tell himself honestly that there was really nothing to worry about. If _that_ were true, he'd have his own _body,_ wouldn't he?

He didn’t make it all the way to the hall before a gurgly, groaning sound behind him set his heart and feet racing. What was _that?_ The sound was inhuman and all too human all at once. Something was following him, dragging wetly behind him. Another groan - more groans, and more squelchy slap-drag sounds across the creaky floorboards. How many of them _were_ there, whatever they were?

He didn’t look behind him - he was sure he’d stumble if he did. Careening recklessly onward, his world narrowed to himself, his pursuers and whatever was immediately in front of him in the moment. He needed an advantage. High ground? The projection booth! If he could get up there, maybe he’d be able to defend himself, knock them back down and away from him.

Clattering urgently up the stairs to the booth, Sammy lunged for the chair to wield at whatever was behind him, whirling as soon as he had it tightly in hand. They hadn’t followed him up. He wished he could consider that a good thing, but they showed no signs of _leaving,_ either. His stomach lurched as he stared at them, his head swimming. He had an awful feeling he knew exactly what they were. _Who_ they were.

Superficially, they looked like the top half of a human, but as though they’d been molded from ink, with almost all of their features smoothed out. Their mouths gaped lollingly, as if there was no lower jaw to hold them in place, and seemed to only be smooth, toothless hollows that didn't lead to any sort of throat. They _had_ noses and all of their fingers - which a part of Sammy somehow managed to find a moment to be miffed at - but their torsos tapered into an inky mess on the ground. They had no _eyes,_ either - but they were _staring at him._

Fingers tingling, a shaky, delirious laugh bubbled from him as he stared back. At least he didn’t have to wonder what had become of the band. He couldn’t tell any differences between them to know who was who, but there were just enough of them waiting at the base of the stairs for it to be them. What did they want? Why had they been chasing him? Why were they _waiting_ for him? Were they going to hurt him? At least they didn’t seem able to climb up after him.

Glancing around, he searched for anything he could use. There wasn’t really much up there, though. There was the projector, of course, and the chair he held, but beyond that? Only a garbage can, one of those cutouts of Bendy, and a single can of bacon soup that’d been up there for some reason. Setting the chair back down, he felt floaty, disconnected from reality. In a way, he thought, he really was, wasn’t he?

The cutout was the most person-shaped thing he had access to, besides himself - maybe he could use it as a decoy? Could the band see? He was almost sure they could hear, at least. Simply throwing it probably wouldn’t work - he wasn’t really sure how much was left of them, but you didn’t have to be all there to get suspicious of a clattering thrown object.

If they’d probably followed his footfall, maybe… he’d have to go down the stairs himself, at least most of the way. It was risky, but he’d have to come down sooner or later, and if he couldn’t distract the band and they did turn out to be dangerous, he’d have a fight on his hands. Taking hold of the cutout by its head and arm, he held it in front of him like a shield as he began to walk slowly down the stairs, arms shaking a little.

He had their attention, he could tell. Shifting in place as the stairs creaked beneath him, their nonexistent gaze followed him down. It was like being a sparrow landing for a drink while several tabbies were crouched pounce-ready. The susurrus in his missing ears grew louder as he descended, almost like clamouring voices separated from him by a wall of cotton.

The nearest one tensed - he noticed, but not in time to double back. Sammy gasped as it leapt at him, smacking meatily into the cutout and knocking him backwards. The stair jutted painfully into his rear as he landed - he scrambled up with a curse, desperately climbing. It lunged again - the cutout cracked loudly, like snapping bone. Throwing most of it at his attacker, he practically threw himself up the stairs, numb and shaking.

It hadn’t been paranoia. They really _had_ been chasing him. Why? What could they possibly want to hurt him for? Did they think he'd done this to them? His fingers ached, and he realised he had the cutout’s head in a vice grip. Morbid. It landed with a clatter as he let go. What was he going to do? Frantic, he racked his mind for an idea, any idea.

_S̵̼̑ḭ̵͂n̶̞̓g̶͍͊.̵̟͌_

A moment of clarity washed over him, as though he’d stepped under a cool flow of water. Even his seemingly ever-present tinnitus was gone, replaced with a vague sense of floatiness. Sing? Where had that thought come from? Even floating above his panic, it didn’t really seem to make sense to him. What was singing going to do against the apparently homicidal remains of his band?

**_S̵̼̑ḭ̵͂n̶̞̓g̶͍͊.̵̟͌_ **

The thought felt oddly alien, jarring, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he’d even consider singing when there were monsters made of his coworkers apparently lying in wait to kill him for what might possibly not even be the first time. However… he didn’t actually have any other ideas. Drifting on a surface of false tranquility he wasn't sure he trusted, he took a slow, deep breath and began to sing.


	4. Puddles

Quavering at first, but becoming deceptively steady, the smooth tones of Sammy’s voice began to fill the still air. It was nothing especially profound - his mind had leapt to the first available notion, that of the songs he himself had composed for the show - but a song was a song, right?

It felt almost anchoring to sing, somehow, giving him something to cling to, to reassure him. He couldn’t, however, forget  _ why _ he was doing this. Even as disconnected as he felt right then, he hadn’t forgotten that his life was in danger. As he sang, he kept a close eye on the dripping figures at the foot of the stairs.

There was an air of confusion below, for which Sammy couldn’t really blame them, as surreal as this was. They couldn’t see one another to exchange glances, but the way they dithered and rubbed the sides of their foreheads seemed to indicate some manner of uncertainty. Did this mean that there was still a spark of lucidity in there?

Moving on to nursery rhymes, which he hoped might kindle some form of familiarity in them, he watched their faces and postures closely for any sign of what they might do next. They seemed… uncertain. Their faces didn’t seem as focused on him as they had been before, brows furrowed. Were they thinking?  _ What _ were they thinking?

Mouths moving as if trying to follow along with his words, the creatures seemed to be settling down, slowly but surely. Perhaps it was the familiarity, whether of his voice, the songs, or both. Possibly they really were waking up inside. However, it was also plausible that they were only mimicking him - he couldn’t afford to trust them.

As he segued into the lullabies he knew, Sammy felt more himself, less as though he was floating. He wasn’t the only one less jumpy, either - the band appeared drowsy, faint bubbling sounds escaping them. Watching them closely, he took extra care to keep his voice soft and smooth, trying to lull them while a thrill of success zipped through him.

Warping in on themselves with disgusting, squelchy sounds, the band pooled into puddles in ones and twos. Sammy didn’t stop singing until the last bubbles had popped, scarcely daring to believe that it had worked, but exultant that it had. A triumphant, slightly giddy laugh threatened to escape, but he muffled it with his hand in case it woke them again.

Now that he wasn’t in as immediate danger, there was far more space in his mind to actually think of what to do next. The absence of that tinnitus helped as well, no longer providing a background source of irritation and unease. He’d spotted a can of soup earlier - that was worth picking up, even if it hadn’t been his first priority. He didn’t have an immediate way to cook it, but he was fairly sure the ingredients were all pre-cooked in some way anyway, so he figured it would be safe enough.

Lowering himself onto the ground, he sighed and reached for the soup. The can felt cold to the touch, even through the papery label, and he grimaced as he tried to open it. Would it taste any good cold? It was a relatively minor worry under the circumstances, but still. Once he managed to keep his fingers from slipping, he found the pull tab. Damn thing was hard enough to spot even before, but now, when everything seemed dimmer, it was almost impossible to find it by eye.

As he’d expected, it was lumpy and chilled - but at least it didn’t taste as grotty as he’d worried. In fact, it was quite good - and good to know that he  _ could _ still taste something. Why  _ was _ it so chilly, though? It should have been room temperature, shouldn’t it? Oh well, it wasn’t as though he wasn’t confused already, so the soup might as well be weird too. Whatever was going on with it, he felt a  _ lot _ better after he’d eaten his fill. He hadn’t realised he’d been that hungry, but then again, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been out.

Setting the can aside, he found his gaze landing upon the cutout head he’d dropped, and he picked it up to have a closer look at it. He’d found the cutouts everywhere pretty annoying before, not understanding why Joey felt the need to have them all over the place, but… this one had been useful. Perhaps it was sentimental of him, but he decided to hang onto it.

Hauling himself upright, he glanced again at the puddles of his coworkers and sighed as he wondered again why and how all this was even happening. Careful to be as quiet as he could, he inched his way down the stairs, his entire frame tense as he tried to make no sudden movements. Getting to the base, he placed his feet with meticulous care, doing his best not to tread on even a drop of the puddles.

Maybe he still had some spare clothes stashed in his office? That seemed like a good next step, and he brightened at the thought that things might be looking up. Picking up the pace a little, he headed straight for his office. From time to time, the floor creaked beneath him, freezing him with worry, but each time he glanced behind him, nobody seemed to have stirred.

The pipe near his door seemed damaged  _ again _ when he got to it, something that would usually have at least exasperated him. However, there didn’t actually seem to be any ink flowing through it at present, so he ignored it for the time being. Entering his office, he felt a little better. It wasn’t his sanctuary, but this space was  _ his, _ and nothing within appeared to want to kill him. That was an improvement.

Settling himself wearily into his chair, he set the cutout head on the desk and reached down to the drawer. It slid open with a soft rasp of shifting wood, the contents appearing relatively unspoiled. That would have been great, if it had actually contained clothing rather than paper. Where were his spares?

A slow realisation crept up on him, and he leaned forward with a groan to rest his head against his desk. He’d already  _ used _ them, hadn’t he? “Looks like I’ll have to raid someone else’s after all…” He murmured to himself, muffled by his desk. Before he’d seen the band, he might have given this up as a bad job and headed for the exit right away, clothes or no clothes. Now, however, he couldn’t help lingering on the thought of the others. They hadn’t been wearing anything, and they appeared to have  _ lost _ their legs in some kind of melty melding. Perhaps it was foolish of him, but he was afraid that the same thing would happen to him. Trousers at least could maybe help keep his legs separate.

He needed a break from dodging monsters. Today had been - he honestly didn’t have the words to describe it. Well, unless listing every profanity he knew counted, but lists somewhat diminished the emotional release of actually uttering them anyway. Lifting his head, his gaze fell upon the paper in his drawer, and he lifted some of it out onto the desk.

He didn’t know if he was actually going to avoid becoming like the band, and as much as that frightened him, it did mean that there was something he could do that didn’t involve wandering around in the open where they could attack him again for a while. Finding a pen he brought it to bear on the first page as he began to record his experiences. If there was a possibility that he could lose himself, or just plain die, he wanted there to be something of him left for someone to find. He could go seek out some trousers after he’d made sure he wouldn’t be forgotten.


	5. A Twisted Mess

Perhaps venturing to a lower level had been a mistake… After jotting down what he could - and finding rather more holes in his memory than he was really comfortable with admitting to himself - Sammy had been restless. He had to feel as though he was up and doing _something_ \- that had been the case even before he was faced with such a bizarre situation. So, once he’d carefully stored his record so far in the drawer of his office desk, he’d cautiously slipped back out to take a more thorough look around.

During his search of the music department, he’d managed to find an axe. Holding it made him feel somewhat safer, despite how surreal it was to be wielding an axe in a cartoon studio. Still, this was an emergency situation - not a fire, as he was almost sure it had been intended for, but no less important.

Besides the axe, his usual stomping grounds hadn’t really turned up anything of use to him other than more cans of bacon soup that had just been left lying around everywhere. Those, he’d stored in his sanctuary, before heading towards the stairs down with his banjo strapped to him and his axe in hand. He’d realised how ominous it was to be heading deeper in when some clearly messed up things were happening, but he hadn’t expected the difficulty he’d _actually_ encountered.

He was _lost._ There was a faint edge of incredulity to the thought as he picked his way through the creaky, dripping hallways, but it was true. He’d have expected this if he’d been _new_ to the studio, but there he was, a senior staff member, having trouble making sense of where he was going. He was _sure_ he’d been through these shelves of toys before… Perhaps it was the dim lighting.

As if to deliberately pile onto his stress levels, it quickly became clear that he wasn’t alone on this floor, either. More groaning, dragging figures leapt up from the ink to hound him, the sound of their oozing making him shudder as he tried to tuck his axe under his arm so he could play his banjo without dropping it or hurting himself. He _could_ have tried to dispatch them with his new weapon, but the thought still made him queasy. They were _so much_ like him - he _had_ to believe that he could deal with them on a non-violent level. That maybe there was hope for them.

They kept their distance as he played, reaffirming his hopes, and he found to his relief that he was able to move onward. Had they somehow been confusing him, or was it that he himself had been at fault? Perhaps the music was helping him more than simply to keep the others at bay… For now, he decided not to think about it, striding towards what seemed like a totally unnecessary crossroads.

Why had this even been put in here? It didn’t add anything useful to arrange things like this - they hadn’t been giving tours of the place that’d need little showy pieces for the visitors. Joey’s frivolity at work again, he assumed with a heavy sigh as he trudged towards the path marked as ‘The Demon’. For some reason or another, it just seemed like the way to go.

_Thud!_ Sammy jumped, a sound like a stepped-on cat escaping him. What was _that?_ Doubling back a few steps, it became obvious that the floor-shaking sound had come from a gate falling and completely closing off the other path. What the _hell?_ Was this Joey’s idea of a fun, dramatic joke, or just a malfunction? Grumbling to himself, he stepped rather quickly through to the path remaining, not wanting to be directly underneath the other gate for long. Thankfully, though, it didn’t seem inclined to fall anyway.

The place was a _sty._ His face, such as it was, twisted in distaste at the sight of the literal ink stalactites that had formed, thick and gooey as they stretched from ceiling to ink-swamped floor. Had this really had time to form while he’d been unconscious? How long had he been out? He shut down this uncomfortable train of thought, choosing to try to focus on not slipping as he waded through the clammy mess.

To his relief, the end of the path also meant clearer floor to walk on - though admittedly his own tread daubed ink from the demon path all over it for a while. Decidedly _less_ encouraging, though, was the posse of horribly mutilated little toons that appeared to have claimed Heavenly Toys for their own.

It would have been disturbing enough to see them intact and off the page, but to Sammy’s dawning horror, there was more to it than simply being real. His stomach curdled at the sight of what might once have been Charley, his earlier fears of undeath returning in force to clutch at his insides. Too-human mouth hung open in a slack, perpetual groan, the little figure lurched with his head lolling at an angle.

Barley’s stooped body shuffled not far from the first horror, branded a liar by his buckle and dangling Edgar’s bubbled and distorted head from a _fishing pole_ where his neck ought to have been. There was even a little model of a fish dangling as well! What kind of twisted mockery of both life and cartoon _was_ this? Could he be hallucinating?

The rest of what _might_ have been Edgar wandered noisily at the far end of the room, strangely upright for the spidery toon. He still had too many limbs to really be anyone else, but his left arms seemed to have been fused into one, with an _extender bar_ of all things mixed in.

A chill snaked down along Sammy’s spine as he noticed that the odd chattering sound had been coming from a large, toothy mouth at the top of the figure’s head - a head that _might_ once have been Barley’s, at least in part. It was hard to tell, with how disfigured it was. He couldn’t look at it any more closely after realising that the toon’s proper mouth had been stitched shut.

For a good few moments, he stood practically paralysed, his stomach knotting itself queasily. They hadn’t spotted him yet, but he was fairly sure that would change as soon as he took a step or two further into the room. What could he do? Were they like the others, probably people? Would they leave him alone if he played music for them?

_Ṇ̸̆o̶͉͊,̵̘̃ ̴̤͛t̶̘̉h̷͚̄e̶̻̓y̵̭̿ ̸̟̌w̶̩͋o̵̙̕n̸̠̂'̷̢͝ṫ̵̻.̸̗̎_

Strange certainty threaded through him while the thought seeped into his mind, just like the idea to sing to his band earlier. _Why_ was he certain about this? Listening to the last suggestion his mind had thrown at him had paid off, but there was something about this that he just couldn’t quite put his finger on.

_If̨͜͢ ̶̢y̛o͘͟u҉ ͠don̶'͡͞t̨̕ ̢̛k̷il̨̛͠l̵̛̕ ̴t̴͢h͢em̡̧,̸̵ t̛͢h̴̴̴ę͏y̵ ̵w̸͟i͝͝l̕l͏̢ ̢͡͝k̷il̨̛͠l̵̛̕ yo͡u̷̕͞.̵̢͘_


	6. Alien Thoughts

He might have mistaken these strange, intrusive thoughts for his own before, while he was still reeling from how he’d awoken, but now? Sammy was becoming increasingly certain they didn’t belong to him at all. They didn’t even sound like his own voice, and his own thoughts usually didn’t make him feel at all _floaty._

His mind buzzed fretfully - the voice’s advice had helped him last time, but hearing voices out of the blue wasn’t a great sign at the best of times, especially not voices telling him to kill. It didn’t help that he wasn’t in a safe place he could carefully hash things out in, either - any move he made on these creaky old floorboards, even to retreat, might catch the attention of the woefully warped Butcher Gang.

_I͠'̧m̵ ͜n͟͡ơt g͟oi͘n̵͝g̕ ̷̡t̵̡͠o ̶̡h̕͜͏u͏r̴̢t̴͏ ̡y̶͟o̷͝u̡͘.͞_

How could he trust that? With everything _else_ in this forsaken place going to shit - including himself - why _couldn’t_ the voice he was suddenly hearing in his head be untrustworthy? What did it even want? As his thoughts whirled, though, Sammy wasn’t oblivious to the sloshing, dragging footfalls of the creatures pacing up ahead. Sooner or later, one of them was bound to spot him anyway.

_I̛҉ ͢͞h̵͜͢el͞p̢̨͢e͜d ̡y̶͟o̷͝u̡͘ l̕͏͞a̡s͟t ͟͜t̸͘im̶e͜, ̧҉̕r̨͠e̶m̧͘͘e͏͘͡mb̡e̕͟r͡?͡ I̷̕͠ w̸͜a͡n̡t҉͡ ̧̛͞y̕͠o̡u̶͞ ͠t͝o̶̡_ **_l̵͏i̡̕v̡̡͏e̛.͢͡_ **

There was a distinctly exasperated note to the voice this time, as though Sammy was a child dead set on being difficult. That was kind of irritating - did the voice in his head _have_ to think at him in that tone of voice? He was a grown man, and he had reasons to think twice about what he was being asked to do. What if those creatures were people?

_T͟͡ḩe̛y̷'̢͘r̵e ̛f͜͢e̢̨ra͡l͟͏ ̕͢a̡͠n͏d҉ ̷t̷͠e̶r̷͜͜r̵͟i͢t̸̛o͞͏̨ri͏̷̛a̕͜l,͘ S͢͟͠a͠m̷m͜y̸. T͜h̶͡e̵y̶̶̛'̶͢͡l̶͏l̕͏ ̷̷͢te͏aŗ͜ ̷̶̨y̧ou̴ ͘̕a̵͢͠p̸̴a͏̨͞r̶̢̛t͢҉̛ ̧i̶̧͟f̡͡҉ ̢y̨̛o̵u̕͘͜ g̕͝i͜͠v̛e̕͠ t̕h̵e̶m͟͏͝ ̵͞t̵̸͠he ̢͢c̶͡ha̸nc̷͡e.̢_

As if to punctuate the voice’s words, a hoarse, gurgling cry pierced the air. He’d been spotted. To his alarm, all three of the shambling figures broke into a staggered run towards him, nonsensically babbling. He bolted, trying to outpace them. How were they so _fast?_ Charley didn’t even have matching legs - but he was charging full-tilt despite having a plunger for a leg.

_B͢͠e͢͝͝h̶̶͜in̵̢̡d ̶y͏̴o̸̕͘u!͟͏_

Pain shot through his back - something had hit him, _hard._ He kept running, jinking his course to and fro in an attempt to shake them off. His sludgy legs heavy, Sammy could feel himself tiring much faster than he was used to. Something grabbed his leg, dragging at him. Teeth clamped down, sinking in. _Enough!_

Desperate, he swung wildly. Axe thunking meatily into his assailants, he struggled to free himself, kicking and flailing. They howled like the damned, biting and scratching. His vision swum with ink, eyes stinging. Again and again he hacked at them, arms aching, hoping frantically for it to be _over_ already.

The almost-words and shrieks burbled into silence as the remains of the Butcher Gang melted into ink and seeped down through the floorboards. Dropping his axe, Sammy sagged to the ground, dazed and bleeding ink of his own from various raw and insistent injuries. They were dead. They were dead, and he’d killed them. What if they’d been people? Was he a murderer now? Clutching his head, a strangled sound escaped him.

_T͝he͢͠͡y͘͏͏'̡̨l̨l͟ b͟ę ̡b̴͢ack͏͡, ̷͝s̛͢͡o͝on̷͟er̡̨̡ or͘͡ ̡̢͞l̨a̧̨ter͝.̧͜͠.̨͢.̨_

_How_ could they come back? They’d _melted_ \- he’d _killed_ them!

_T̕h͘e̷̢i͡r̡͢ ͟͏f̴̧ǫ͟r͏m̢s͜͠ w̸er̵e̢̕ ͜͟st̨a̴̧b̢͝͞le̶͠, ͡t͏̕h̴͝e̢̛̕y͘̕'̷l̸l͡ ҉f̡or̡m̧̛ a͟g̶a͢i͡͞n̶͡ ̧̨͘ev̧͜entu͏a̡͟l̢l̴̨y̴̧.̶̛_

Would they? Would they really? How could he know that? How could he be sure? As far as he could tell, that had been _pretty final_ \- and if it hadn’t, if death _wasn’t_ final any more, why had it been so urgent for him to fight for his life? Well, apart from the pain, he was fairly sure death by Butcher Gang would have been an unpleasant way to go even if it was temporary.

_Yo̸͞u͏r̶̶ f̧͜͢o͢rm̧̨ ͜͞i͏s̴̶͘n̡̛'̨͘t̛͘ s̵̢t̶ab͞l̶e̶ y̨e͜͟t̵.̴ ͢͞I̧ ̛͞don̷͝͡'̵t̢̧͠ k͘n̸̛o̧͝w͏ i̢f̧͞ ̧y͏o͠ų̵͢'̶d͢ ha̡v̢͠e͡ ̨͡mad̛e i͟͞t bac͟k͝ ̴̧a̸̡̧s͡͡ y͏o̢u̴r͜s̡͝e͡l̴͏f̵̷.͞_

_That_ was a chilling thought. What would _happen_ to him if he did reform, but not as himself? Would he be dead, with a stranger in his skin? He shivered, holding himself. That was uncomfortably close to possible, considering what he’d already seen. What if he was already an echo, only fooling himself into thinking he was himself? Was he a monster, too?

_Y͜o̴̧ų r͟e̛͏m͘e̶͏͞m̢͝b̵e̴r̵̡͞ ̡w̵̕hǫ ҉͘y̡o̴u ̷͜a̶̢͝re̷̵, S͢͟͠a͠m̷m͜y̸.̡ Y̨͡ou͞͝ ̴͢҉ha͏v̛e͟n̴'̨t̢ l̨͢͝o͟͝st̢ y͢ou̴̶͠r͏s̸͏e͜l͝f̨̨, a̷͢͠n̵̴͡d̨ ̴̨y͢ơ̡u ͢a͏̕r͘͘e͡n̷̵̡'̨̢t ̧a͞͝ mo̷͟n̷s̶͢͜t͠e̶r̵̵.͝͡_

Not _yet,_ anyway, he mused bitterly. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t noticed that his memories had grown… fuzzier. Between missing realisations he should have made sooner, and things that he’d struggled to bring to the surface when he was taking down his notes, it was obvious that something was wrong with his memory.

“Who… Who _are_ you? How do you know all these things?” He croaked, still huddled on the ground. He’d thought that this was a fragment of his own mind whispering to him, but the voice had warned him of an attack from _behind,_ one Sammy hadn’t heard coming. He didn’t know _how_ this was possible, but that was true of practically _everything_ he was running into now.

There was a moment or two of hesitation, the sensation of the voice’s presence not fading, but no sound to mark an answer. Then, finally, the voice spoke again.

_M̴y҉͟͝ ̛na̴͞m̢e̸ i͞s̸͏ ̛B̵̴̨ȩ̛͠n̶̶d̡y̧͞.̶͘_


	7. There's always more, isn't there?

How was he supposed to process that the voice in his head was the dancing demon from the cartoon? It was  _ Joey _ who was the most gung-ho about the little guy, not him. How was this even possible? He wasn’t supposed to be  _ this _ real - he was a cartoon character! Even the monstrous mockery of the Butcher Gang hadn’t really seemed themselves enough to give their names, more husks than anything else. Not to mention, he wouldn’t have expected the Bendy from the cartoons to urge him to kill.

_I̕͠ ͜ņe͡v͏e̵̡͢r h̶͡͡ad̛͢ ̵t̷o̷̶ d̶̕e͟a͏̧l͝͏ ͏w͘i̴͟th t͡h͘i͞ş̨ ̶͢k͠i͞n͘͡d ̵̧̧ơf͘͟҉ ̢t̨̕̕h͡͡inģ̛̛ ̵i̵n͢ ͠t̷͏̨h̴͘e car̷to͏ons̢.͜͝_

Okay, well, maybe that was fair. Sammy’d never had to deal with zombified anything before either, let alone cartoons come to life. It was still jarring, though. Sat beside the giant Boris plush near the perpetually ink-flowing Heavenly Toys sign, Sammy sighed and leaned back. “Do _you_ know why any of this is happening?” He asked, his voice as tired as he felt. If this really _was_ a cartoon talking in his head, he figured he might as well see if he had any information.

_N̶̡͝o҉̵,͏ ̧̛b̷ư̷t̴̕ ̢I͡'̵m̶̶̡ f̛ai͡r̴̨l͝y͘͞ ̴̢̧s̢̧u̵̡͡r̨͠e͏ ̵̛I̴͠ kn̢o͏w̢ ͡͞w̨̕h̡̡o̢se̸̛͝ ̧͟fa̧ul͏t̸͟͠ ̨͟i̧͟t ͝͡҉i̢͞͞s̢̛͘.̵̕̕_

There was _definitely_ a layer of bitterness threading through _that_ thought he wouldn’t usually have associated with Bendy. Then again, nothing and nobody he’d seen in this place since he’d woken up had been okay. He had no way of knowing what might have provoked the demon. Who _had_ created this awful, twisted mess? He hadn’t thought to wonder if it had been some _one_ rather than just a bizarre disaster, but as he sat ruminating, a realisation began to slowly bob to the surface.

Things at the studio hadn’t just been hectic and stressful, they’d been _weird -_ and at the heart of that weirdness, there had been one man in particular. One man who’d already made everyone’s lives hell by installing the freakish contraption he claimed would revolutionise their industry - the same contraption he insisted needed some office keepsakes dedicated to it so it would run properly, and which spewed out the ink that everyone was now apparently _made_ of. “God _damnit_ Drew!” He spat, his tone strained, clenched fist smacking down hard against the raised platform he was leaning against.

Bendy was silent for a while, allowing Sammy to process his emotions without the added complication of a demonic voice in his head. On some level, he appreciated that, but most of his thoughts were occupied by furious imaginings of things he’d do to his decidedly former boss if he ever saw him again, most of them quite violent. Thankfully, nothing wandered in while he was distracted.

_A͡͏r̨̕e ̢͝y̴͠͠ou̕͠ al͢r͢i̛gh͠t̸͟?_

Sammy chuckled mirthlessly as he stood up, grabbing his axe as he did. “No, but I think I’m ready to keep going.” What else could he do? Just hang around thinking up new ways to take revenge on someone who might not even know his own name anymore? That wasn’t going to help him.

_H̵̛e͘̕'s̵.͡.͠. n̴̸ǫ̶t ̨̢he̢r̡͟e̢,͞ ͘he ̛̕e͠s̢͠c̡apeḑ̵̛.̡̕_

Well wasn’t _that_ peachy? Bendy’s mental voice sounded about as frustrated with this development as Sammy found himself, to put it lightly. The one person who most deserved to have his life disrupted by the things he’d set in motion, and he’d apparently somehow got away, the slippery sod. “That figures…” He grumbled, his grip on the axe tightened. “...You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get some trousers, would you?” Maybe if he focused on something that could actually help him, it would be easier to put this out of his mind?

_W͠e̶ll̵.͡.͠. ̨y̡͟e̢s̵̶͜,͝͞ ̢͞b̶̛͠u̶͠t̸͟͢ ̵̢yo̶̴u'̷͝re̡̢̕ ̵͡͞n̕̕ot ͜g̴oi͡n̷͞g̸ ţo̴ ̸̧l̕i̴kȩ ͢i̕͟t̴͠.̡͜_

Sammy hadn’t liked any of the new changes to the studio since he’d woken up, so what was one more thing he wasn’t going to like? Trousers were trousers. “Just tell me where I can find them, please. I’d like to _not_ have to fight for my life in the nude.” Not that the nudity was his main problem with his situation, but he was avoiding thinking about the possibility of his legs sticking together.

_I̢f͟ y̵o͝u̵͢͜'̨r̡͟͝e͏̶̨ ͏̴sư̡r̶e̸.͡.͠. ̧̛you͘͜͞ w̶a̴nt͞ L̢e̛͟͜v̡̕͜e̴̷l̵̕ ͡9̸͟͝.̨͢ T̸͢r̵y ҉͜n̕̕o̵t͞ to̡ ̨̡be̵ ͠t͜oo͢͜ ̷͞l̶̨͞ǫud, ̨it'̡s̕ d̛͞a̧͢nge͟r̷͝o͡us ͏u̡͠p͜ th̕͏e͘r͠e̵̡._

More dangerous than it already was where he’d been running into literal monsters? That seemed hard to believe, yet horribly possible. “...Any handy hints for survival?” He asked cautiously, making his way towards where he was fairly sure the lift would be. Bendy seemed to have his finger on the pulse of the place so far, after all…

_I̷f͟͞ ̧y̡o͢͡u͟ ͜͡͏h͡eą̴r ̵h̴͢ųm̢͘m̵̛i̷n̸̡g̵,͜͏ ļe̵a̡v̴͠e҉_ **_i͏̵m͟m̸ȩ̕d̸͘͜i̶͠ate̴ly̛͝.̵̢͜_ **

That was rather ominous - and it sounded an awful lot like there was a very  _ specific _ threat on that level… “Humming?” He asked, his tone uncertain, while stepping cautiously in past the creakily opening lift door. It still seemed to be in working order, at least. “This isn’t the time or place to be mysterious, this could be life or death to me. What am I dealing with here?” For a moment, he was a little worried that Bendy would stop helping him if he questioned him like this, but if he was serious about keeping Sammy alive, hopefully he’d be frank with him.

.̵.̵.͠A̡͏ ̢͠ķiļ̶l̡̢ȩr ̷̢͟w̸͜įth a ̨̢͜m͞i̡̢n͢͡͏d̷. S̛h̴̡͘e c͠a̶̴l͝l̷̵s he͝rs͝e̛l̨f̶ Al̵i̛͘c͟͡e̡̢ Aņ͜͡g͜e̶̡͡l̵.͘ Ţh͠͝e͠r͘͘e̵̴͡ ar͢͢e ̢t̵͘͢ŗou̸s̸̶͞ę͝r͟s̛ ̴t͠ḩ̕͜e̷̷̛re be̷͢c̴͜͏a͘ų͟s̨̕͡e̸,͠ ̛̛w̷̢e̸͝l̴͢l̵͠.̵.͏͞.̸̨ ͘t̛h̸̡e͢͞re̕͠ a͘͞re̛ ͞pȩ͏o̧̨̡p̨͠l̛ȩ̨̛ ͝͝s̡͜h͘̕e͏̡'s k̵͘il͘͏l̵ed̸ ͏t̵͘h͡ȩr͢e̕͜.͏̧  
  
Oh. Lovely. Just what he needed. Sucking in a slow breath, Sammy did his best to steady himself. On the one hand, walking into the den of a killer sounded like the very definition of a poor decision, and the idea of taking clothing from the victims felt… unpleasant. On the other, there were probably ink zombies that would try to kill him shambling around everywhere anyway, and he needed those trousers. “I guess I’m really doing this…” He muttered to himself, pressing the button and hoping for the best.


	8. In the Spider's Parlour

While the lift descended, Sammy tried to retain a sense of composure by mentally running through what he knew. It was important to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, which hopefully Bendy would chime in on before it was too late, but also gave him a sense of security. Fragile, maybe, but still something to hold onto that could tell him that his mind hadn’t become a sieve.

He knew what he wanted - the trousers - and why. He knew there was a homicidal angel made of ink where he was going, who might well have once been someone he had worked with. He knew that there were going to be corpses - also probably coworkers. Without graves, it technically wouldn’t even be grave-robbing as such - unless the whole studio qualified. If the studio _did_ qualify, though, surely it wouldn’t be grave-robbing anyway, since he was just as buried as the poor saps he was going to see.

That rather morbid train of thought was cut off with a dull clunk and rattle, the lift coming to a halt and opening up to allow him out. It wasn’t _that_ loud, but knowing that he had to be stealthy if he wanted to survive, it filled Sammy’s ears - whatever he had of them. What if the angel had heard that - or worse, noticed the lift arriving before it’d even come to a stop? She could be lying in wait even now…

_S͟h̷e̴ ̢h̵̛a͝s͢ ̷͟n̷̛͡o ̶i̷d̛e̵̛a̧ ҉̸y̷͟͝o͝u̡'̡̢r͜e ̸̛͡h̸e̷re._

How could he be _sure_ of that? How did _Bendy_ know? As he stepped out onto the balcony, Sammy could quite clearly see a gigantic Alice Angel head at the other end of the expansive, almost cathedral-like space. It made him feel loomed over, watched, under scrutiny - as though he were a bug to be squashed. With all that he’d seen so far, he wasn’t entirely convinced that the giant angel wasn’t about to come to life and smite him with her sign.

_Į̛ ͏̢̡c̶͝a̴̷̕n̴ ̶̕see̷̢͢ ̢h̵̛e͠͠r o͏̕͜n͏̴ ͢͝L͜e͟͏ve̢̨l̨͝ ͏1͠1 r̢̕i̸̧̡g͡ḩt ̧̧n̢o͝w͞, co̸͟͡l͜le͘ct͏ing̶ t̴̶ḩ͏i͝ck̨̡ ̷͞͠įn̷̨k͜͏.̶̵̢_

She was on a different level? A faintly giddy tickle of relief threaded through him at the thought of having floors between them - but he hadn’t forgotten that the lift wasn’t the only way to and from different levels. She could take the stairs at any moment - he still had to tread carefully.

Still feeling somewhat scrutinised, and wondering vaguely what the angel was doing with thick ink anyway, Sammy eased himself down the balcony steps. So far, so good, but he didn’t trust that nothing would leap out at him from amongst the barrels. Why did they even have those? Were they for storing the excess ink? It was a bit pointless by now, if so.

Crossing what looked somewhat like a bridge, Sammy could almost hear the pleading and struggling of those who’d been dragged up the steps ahead before. The desperation straining their indistinct voices. The scuffing of their feet against the boards beneath. He slowed. Why was he doing this? Why was he risking himself for _trousers?_ Questioning himself, he paused, staring up at the enormous angelic visage that dominated the room.

_T͝͝h̴͢e͢r̢̕e͏͡'̧̨s̵̕ s͜͞t͘ill̢̕̕ ti̧̧͢mę ͘t̵̕o͝ ̵l͟e͏̷a͠v̷e͡, y͘o͞u d͡o͝n̕'̢t̷̵ h͠a̛f̢t͝a͡ d̢o t̸his͟͢͡.͞.̡͏.̨͟͏_

His gut churning uncomfortably, Sammy shook his head, trying to regather his nerve. He’d come this far already, and the angel was on another floor. What if he didn’t have another opportunity like this? He had to press on. Ignoring the faint gurglings of his stomach, he scaled the steps to the metal gate beneath the sign. _Why_ was such a door in an animation studio anyway? He was almost sure it hadn’t been there before…

There was a strange tube thing on one side, and something almost like a bin on the other, but no visible handle or switch for the door. How was he supposed to get it open? Muttering in an undertone about stupid impractical doors, Sammy put his axe down to free up his hands. Then, digging his fingers into the join between the doors, he grunted as he tried to force them apart.

The metal groaned and creaked, a grating sound that felt far too loud. The doors resisted, and for a few moments, Sammy could almost believe that they were actively squeezing, trying to shut again. However, once he’d managed to wrench them far enough apart, they slid open the rest of the way much more easily. He paused briefly to rub his arms, before stooping to pick up his axe so as to proceed fully armed and on the alert.

Another corridor he couldn’t remember - had the entire building been remodelled somehow? Surely a faulty memory could only cover so many things. Picking his way cautiously through, a flutter of unease not wholly his own trembled his fingers. He tightened his grip on his axe, trying to shove it to the back of his mind.

An angelic form up ahead - Sammy nearly jumped out of his inky skin in the brief moment before he realised it was just a cutout. It wasn’t as easy to tell the difference visually at this point, at least not in an instant. He glared at the cutout, but it did nothing, and he trudged onwards.

Boris. Not just one, but _several_ of the corpses strapped to tables around the morbid, ink-drenched chamber he stepped into were limp and disembowelled - but otherwise rather accurate - copies of Boris the Wolf. Bendy hadn’t mentioned _that_ particular detail, but somehow, Sammy couldn’t blame him for not wanting to elaborate.

Doing his best to focus only on the nearest wolf, one on unflooded ground, Sammy applied his axe to the bindings holding the corpse to the vertical table that seemed more for grotesque display than operations any longer.

It was disturbing, the way this character he was used to seeing so much _life_ brought into in the cartoons just… flopped into a slump on the ground when Sammy cut him free. He looked so _real,_ so much as though he could have been truly _aware_ … “I’m sorry, buddy…” Sammy mumbled to the corpse, while carefully removing the overalls from him.

Considering how gooey his legs were, Sammy doubted he could get the overalls on quickly - not something to try in hostile territory. For the time being, he slung them over his shoulder to keep them from falling into the ink while he carefully laid the body into it. Better to sink than to be a grisly ornament, he thought.

There was no way the angel _wasn’t_ going to notice, he realised. One of her wolves was gone now, after all, and the door had been forced open. Chilled roots of dread began to worm their way through his gut - why hadn’t he thought this far ahead? She’d be on the lookout for the culprit after this - he had to get out of there.

 _G͜͞et ̴͏t͢ǫ ̛͟Le͝vel̢ S̷ -̧ ̵t̵here̛ ar͟͡e͢ ͜pl͟ac̨es̴ ̨to hi̸d̴͡e̕͢͝ ̡do̴wn t͘h͟e̵̴͜r̴̛͝e͡.̴ B̧̛e̛ qų̸i̷ck͘͝ -̧ s̶̶h̡̢e͘'̕s ̷̷ḩ͜͏e̛̕ad͢͟i̸͘n̵̛g͟͠ ҉f̛o̶̷r͘̕͝ th̵e̵͟ s̷t̨a̷̧i̷͞rs̶̨!͠_  
  
Sammy needed no further encouragement to leave this floor behind, but with _that_ news, he broke into as much of a run as he was capable of. Practically slamming his hand against the S button, he was a jangling mess of nerves. He had his trousers, but at what cost?


	9. Grant Me Respite

By the time the lift touched down at his destination, Sammy had managed to recover enough of his composure to not immediately set off at a run the moment the door opened. He  _ did _ step out with considerable haste, trying to avoid looking at the Boris poster on the wall nearby as he did, but he also took a moment or two to actually take a look at where he was going.

Cobwebby it might have been, but at least it didn’t seem as though this part of the studio was as flooded as the demon path earlier. Nerves thrumming as he set off down the corridor, overalls flapping a little against his back, he hoped he’d be able to find an unlocked little nook he could rest in for a while. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to worry about killers or monsters, bodies or anything but some quality peace and quiet.

A sign beckoned at the end of the hall, where it split left and right. It hadn’t occurred to him that this was Accounting and Finance, though he was sure he’d known that. To be fair, he’d been  _ somewhat preoccupied _ up to this point. Which way to go… Left, to the archives and R&D access, or right to Grant’s office? How could he tell where the fewer monsters were?

Opting to head briskly right, under the hopeful assumption that an office would be safer than anywhere else - his own office had been safe, after all - Sammy brushed past the veils of considerable spidery labour. How long had those little sods  _ had _ to work on those? It gave him an eerie, prickly feeling that was entirely unwelcome while he was already so full of jitters.

A Bendy cutout smiled at him from between two closed doors, and it was somehow comforting to see a friendly face, however two dimensional. It felt less as though he was alone down there. On a vague impulse, he gave it a little wave, though he felt a little silly for doing so.

There was a flicker of something in the back of his mind, a hint of that floaty feeling he’d noticed before, and his stomach grumbled at him again. Bendy didn’t seem to have anything to say, though, so Sammy applied himself to the task of checking the doors. The leftmost was locked, whatever resources it held denied to him, but the one marked ‘management’ swung open easily, if rather creakily - that was a little odd. Why lock other doors, and not the management offices?

Sucking in a sharp, useless breath, Sammy stared. Even with his vision as muddied as it was, the state of the office was quite plain to see. Scrawlings covered the walls and some of the floor - not just the odd bit of graffiti here and there either, but as though it were some frantic sort of wallpaper, even overlaying other lines. _Taxes. Money. Time is money. Short. Doesn’t add up. What will Joey think?_ There were even sums, and a desperate injunction to stop ‘the wasters’.

Stepping in further, he closed the door behind him, feet landing on some of those creepy ‘work hard work happy’ posters as he took a longer look around. It was a sty, he reflected as he kicked the posters further into the room. Even without the scrawlings, there was plenty wrong here. Quite apart from the ink splatters all over the place, surely drawers and vent covers weren’t  _ meant _ to be crooked like that? Even one of the walls had been broken open, revealing one of the ever-present ink pipes threading through the place like veins, the ticking of that manic clock a faint pulse in the dusty air.

Pulling up the chair and lowering himself onto it with a groan, Sammy wondered bleakly what had become of Grant in the end. His office didn’t look simply abandoned in a disaster - it looked as though he’d been holed up in there and losing himself. Had he written these things while the studio was still full of humans, or after ink had taken over? Where  _ was _ he? Sammy wasn’t even sure he  _ wanted  _ answers to these questions, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about it.

From above, indistinct and muffled, the faint sound of someone or something shrieking filtered down. Sammy winced, hunching in a little and wishing he was back on his own, familiar floor. How was he going to get back up there without getting murdered, let alone to the exit? He couldn’t be  _ sure _ that that had been the angel, but it seemed like a fair bet.

For a tense while, he sat absolutely still, pretending to be part of the furniture. He could tell that time was passing - the persistent ticking made sure of that - but there was no way he was going to try watching the clock to see how long he waited. It would only feel longer, doing that, and it already dragged out uneasily.

His stomach betrayed him with a deep, wrenching gurgle - nothing. Nobody tore the door open to pluck him out. No footsteps hastened towards him. Rolling his aching shoulders, he set aside his things and pulled himself up onto his feet. If he wasn’t about to be murdered, he figured, he might as well try to get his new overalls on. He’d run the risks to get his hands on them, and he wasn’t about to let that go to waste.

Goopy, drippy-slippy excuses for legs were never meant for shoving through tubes of fabric, it seemed. From where he’d fallen onto his back, Sammy tugged doggedly to finally draw the trouser legs past his feet. He had no idea how long it had taken to get this far, but it had involved rather more slapstick than he felt it had really called for. At least getting back up and looping the straps over his shoulders was a cinch.  
  
That had been rather more tiring than he’d thought it would be, and he was kind of sore, but he’d done it. Actually wearing some form of clothing - which his ink drips  _ didn’t _ seem to be soaking through - he felt a lot less like some kind of shambling horror. Being dressed didn’t entirely banish the background dread of his situation, of course, but this was something he’d accomplished for himself in spite of all that, and that felt good. Some part of his situation, however small, that he’d managed to exert some control over.


	10. Hunger Pangs

While he took another rest, recovering from his flailing efforts and pretending he didn’t feel like an old man for having gotten tired dressing himself, an insistent growl bubbled from his stomach. It had been bothering him on and off for a while, now, he realised. When had he last eaten? He hadn’t thought to check the time when he’d had that soup - and he had no way of knowing whether the clocks were even accurate.

The desk yielded no soup, nor any other form of snacks, and the higgledy piggledy drawers were likewise barren - if he wanted to eat, he was going to have to leave the office. Well, it was distinctly less comforting an environment than his sanctuary, and Bendy _had_ told him there were hiding places available. Was this office what he’d meant, or were there more?

In the absence of any answers from his elusive guide, Sammy elected to find out for himself. Re-slinging his banjo and taking up his axe, he headed out for the other fork of the corridor. It was actually kind of easier to walk now, with his legs not sticking together as much. He tried to tread quietly as he went, just in case. The angel was _probably_ likely to check the floors immediately around her lair rather than anywhere else, but he couldn’t be too careful.

The archive door reminded him of submarines, of high security - it was strange and out of place in the studio. Hadn’t this been wood rather than metal before? He wasn’t sure, but the crank-wheel thing was jiggly and loose. That could come off at any time, he mused, careful not to break it as the door opened with a squeak.

The room beyond was circular, a chamber ringed with a few shelves of books along the walls, like the entrance to some old and forgotten library. In the centre, a large, round podium stood grandly, spotlights trained upon a statue of Bendy.

That was… more than a little eerie, he had to say. It framed Bendy as though he was the patron god of the archives, just as libraries and temples in older times would be adorned with busts and statues of gods. In a way, though, it was fitting - Bendy _had_ been the focus of pretty much everything the studio did.

He managed a little chuckle at that, wondering what it would have been like to do an episode set amongst some old pantheon - before the memory of those desk-taken offerings tickled at the back of his mind. He quietened, pausing right in front of the podium and staring at the statue. Had Drew been treating Bendy and his pals like a pantheon themselves?

It sounded ridiculous on the surface of it, but the man had quite literally asked them to offer little sacrifices from their work stations to ‘appease the gods’, hadn’t he? He couldn’t remember what he’d thought of that at the time - maybe that it was a joke, or some form of hazing - but that had been before he’d had a demon speaking in his head, or an angel out for his blood.

Wrenching from his gut jolted him out of his reverie, and he set the thought quite firmly aside to freak out about another time. For the time being, his priority was getting some food in him. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about his stomach alerting monsters to his presence - that, and he’d feel better fed, of course.

The open doorway at the other end of the room led into another circular chamber, lit up in yellow by lights along the myriad bookshelves along the walls - and by a chandelier in the middle of the ceiling. How were those still powered? Why was there a _chandelier?_ He stepped forward, onto sepia rug almost indistinguishable from the floor, and began to search the shelves.

The outer ring of shelves were pretty chock full of books, he found, so he ventured into the little mini-room created by a second set of shelves. Perhaps there’d be some soup in those, or amongst the odds and ends taking up space where there weren’t books? An archive was an odd place for soup, but so was the projection booth.

Setting his axe on the little table so he could rummage more easily, he felt around to make sure he wasn’t missing anything. For some reason, a couple of the books had been sticking out more than the rest - that was kind of annoying, so he shoved them back in as he searched. Sure, it wasn’t really that important, but it was just one of those things that rubbed him the wrong way.

None of the shelves. None of the cupboards. No, it was one of the _desks_ that yielded a can of soup, tucked away on the ground next to it. That wasn’t the greatest place to store something to eat, but then again, maybe someone’d dropped it. He wasn’t really in a position to complain, the way his gut was chewing itself up. Grabbing it, he sat down at the table and popped it open, toasting the cutout.

Once again, Sammy felt much better for having eaten - though oddly, there was still a faint, lingering sense of hunger that hadn’t quite been banished.

**_S͏̪̩̖̹̩͎̱̭o̫̗r̵͓̟͢͠ŗ̦͖͎͓͢y͇̜̦̬̲͇͓͘,̵̺̥͚͠ ̶̩̳̬͇͓̙̙̥͡t̶̡̺̦̰͇̼͕͟h̭̤͚̟̱̥̯̝͢͞a̮̩̣̪͘͜ṯ̸̬͍̣̟̭̜͉ ̷̱̦̞̲͔͟m̧͓̹͞i̳̲̰͙̮̮̗̪͢͟g̝̟̯̝̤h̷̞͎̗̤̯̠̘͖̙t̢͙ ̶̖̹̗͍̭̖̞̩͜b̴̻̘͚e̖̠͚̩̹͇͉͉ ̥̗͉̺̖͕̯͔m̴̡̥͍̘̝͘e͓͓̕͠͡.҉͖͈͚̤͍͠_ **

There was something a little too grating about Bendy’s voice this time, rougher against his mind, and he winced. Rubbing his forehead, he tried to banish the buzz left behind. “What d’you mean, it might be you? Where have you been?” He _had_ been quiet for a while there, after all.

**_̴͉̦̦̮̝͇̳͢I̵̸̥̗̠̣̳̺̕͟'̣͓̜̜̼͓͉͉̫̩̦̦̖̬̗̗̘̲͜͝m̶̴̧̖̺̣̮͚̟̬͜͝ ̛̙̱̻͙̺͙͔̭̤͈̺̖̫̟͡ͅh̷͉̮̣̯͈̖̟̖͙̮̖̲̥̜͙͓͟͟͝ͅu̢͏̴͚͚͎̜͖̲ͅn̗̲̤͔̪̗͉̳͓̤̰̜̮̞͎̤̙͇͠g̷͇̮͇̣̫̘̝̯̪̼̼͘ŗ̵̧̛̪̠̱͔̬͚̝̪̩̝̖̣̤̯y̸҉̪͔̺̘̲̮̘̝͓͇͖͕͎͍͚̝͎ͅ ̷̴̨̞̭̣̤̼͕̜̼̤͘͝-̲͚̘͉̟̜̹̝̮̹͇̰̙̠̼̣̙̣̦͜͟ ̵͟͟͏̱̮̙̬̲̪̼̖̥̜̠̪ͅͅt̢͏̵͙̮͖͔̮͘͝h̴̺̖̺͈̹͔͖̤͕̙̼͕̻̱̤ą̪̻͉̹̞̙̖̞̪͎̻͠ͅt̸̵͚̯̼͓͕̟̫̺͎̪̺͉̫̻̺̹̬͢͠ ̶̸̷͎͓̘͚̣͚̟̮̪͜m̡͏̷̧̥̬̗͎i̖̲͉̞̥̦̥̺͓͕͓̖͇͕̩͙g̷̶̙̼̗̪͓̺̤͈̼͓̰̗͓̳͢h̸̢̨̘̯͚̻͖͜ţ̵̸̡͔̲̹̩ b͟͏̡̩̣̼̲̫̤͈̳̣͇͢e̥͈̣͚̖͘̕ ̷҉̵͉̺̝͎̜̮̺̲̝͕̬̫̼̗͚̬̝̖̭͠w̰͉̯̱̰͇͜h̶̳͈̺̕͘͠a͉̩͉̜͙̗͖̺͚̰̥̥͠t̷̛̘̠͕͜͡ͅ ͠͏̗͖̬̭̤̜̟̲̞̼̼͟y̵͈̘̪͓̩͓̹͇̦̖̥͓̞͓̩͚̹͟͠o̢̺̣͉̬̖̣̞̤͚͖̗̝͓̳̖͇̘͜ư̯̗̻̘̟̙̟̣͎̘̲̰̦ͅ'̵̴̨̱͙͔̥͓̺̗͢r̵̲̫̣̠̩ę̵̡͙̞͉̳̘̪͎͖̼̼̣͚̰͍̗̭͡ ̡̢̳̩͔̥͕f̡̮͕̫̮͜e̡̫̣͕̲͕̘̝̬͕̕ͅe̷̘̠̹̯̞̤̤͉͙͓͉̭͟ͅḻ̴̬̦̯̥̺̣͔̪͙̭͚̘̘̱̫̜̙͜͞i̴̧̡͍̺̥̭͕͝n̸͉̩͙̤̖̻̠̟̝̻̜̺͓̥͈̤̩͖͝g̡͢͏̮̮̖̱͓̺̙̫̦͖̹̘̖̖͖̕.̷̝̺̩̖̲̙̮̮̮̙̳̖̠ ͕̟͙̞̞̦̟͙̫̳̩̕_ **

_Ow._ It actually hurt a bit to hear that, scraping in his skull - assuming he still had a skull. Putting aside the deeply worrying weirdness of maybe feeling Bendy’s hunger for the moment, he had to speak up. “Do you think you could tone it down a few notches? You’re gonna give me a headache at this rate.”

There was a pause, the odd lingering echo of hunger retreating. Sammy could feel his head clearing a bit, something that relieved him profoundly.

_Sor̶ry!̨ ̶Is̡ t͏his̡ b͡et̢te̛r?̷_

“That’s _much_ better, thank you.” He breathed, standing and grabbing his axe again. “Would you happen to know _why_ I was getting your stomach grumblings? Because, uh, that’s worrying...”

_I͘t͘..͏.͡ ͞mig͠h͝t̡ b̧e ̵b̸eca̸us̕ȩ I'̛m f͟ocusing ̶o̶n ͘yo͝u̕?̧ S͢o̢ ̕th͢at͏ ̴I͜ can̕ t̵a͟lk͡ to͝ yo͏u?_

Right. Some kind of weird connection bullshit. Well, so long as it didn’t actually hurt him, he supposed it was something he could deal with. Bendy had been helping him, after all. With a sigh, he wandered back out of the mini-room in search of the exit. He wanted to get out, but with the angel furious, it was probably a better idea to lay low for a while and let her simmer down before he made an attempt for the surface.

“Private… figures.” It was locked, but there were odd lights above the door, two of them lit. “Oh… I guess I wasn’t the only one to think of a puzzle thing to keep my space hidden. Weird thing to have on a main route, but I’m not totally convinced this place hasn’t shuffled like a deck of cards anyway.” Maybe there would be a sanctuary of sorts on the other side?

The only things he could think of that could have lit those lights - and the only things that would be thematically appropriate in a room like this - were the very books that had irritated him before.

 _It's l͘ik͟e a͏ ̶mys̡t͜ery ͠stor͢y!̢ T̨h͢e̢re are͘n'̵t any ͘mor͜e̴ iņ the mid̸d̴l̷e͝ ͞p̴ar̨t,̸ so̕ ̨they͟ ̶must b̧e̶ ou̧t tḩęr̴e̛ wi͝t͜h ̧yo̸u!_  
  
At least someone was having fun. Had they ever done something like this in an episode? That might explain a few things, if more than the characters had been bleeding into reality. With that disquieting thought in mind, he reached for the next protruding book he spotted.


	11. Shaken, Rattled, and On a Roll

A sound like metal striking, high and sharp - everything was oversaturated and shaking - why were the cupboard doors flapping? He staggered, trying to catch himself against a shelf. It was as though the room was suddenly on a ship, tossed by the waves. The chandelier swung wildly - and suddenly, all was as it had been before. Nothing had been tossed by the motion, everything still on the shelves, no matter how precariously perched. “What the  _ fuck?” _

His head ringing, Sammy tried to make sense of what he’d just perceived. Had that been real, or a hallucination? Either case was really rather worrying, but in a situation like this one, how could he even tell? If he was honest, that only added to his worries. He couldn’t even ask Bendy to be sure - if the demon was in his head, he’d have caught that sight as well either way, as far as he knew.

“...Might as well press on..” He muttered, trying to convince himself he wasn’t shaken as he sought out the remaining book switches. Thankfully for his state of mind, though he braced himself each time, nothing else out of the ordinary happened. Each of the bulbs above the doors shone, and it was time to see what lay beyond.

The doors swung open easily, but it was instantly clear that what they’d hidden was  _ not _ a sanctuary of any kind. It was a dark, open space with rough-hewn walls, only a slight ring of balcony between anyone walking in and a huge drop. Eerily, man-sized cages dangled on chains. Nobody seemed to be in them right then, but who knew whether that had always been the case? This was  _ not _ a friendly space. Still, it was - as far as he knew - the only way forward, so he stepped out despite his trepidation.

The wood creaked beneath his feet worryingly, only slightly muffled by the sound of running ink from the open end of a pipe as he cautiously explored. Why was that just opening out into the air like that? What possible purpose could it hold? It seemed like both a waste and a mess, and he hoped it hadn’t been someone’s idea of a joke. It didn’t seem like Wally’s style, but you never knew who else was making mischief.

_ Is̵ t̶ha̧t a cuto͝ut̕ ͜of͏ ̷m͏e.̢.. ̛e̢mb̸edd͝e̷d in̡ ͡t͘he w͠all͡? _

Bendy’s tone carried unmistakable notes of confusion, and Sammy really couldn’t blame him. “...I think it is. How the hell did that get stuck  _ there?” _ The demon had no more answer on that than he did, and the thing seemed stuck fast when he tugged on it. Bizarre. The wall didn’t even appear to be one that anything could have gotten caught between bricks in, as there were no bricks, and the angle was entirely wrong. “Something about this place is  _ broken… _ It can’t just be how much ink is everywhere, or even the monsters - this just… it doesn’t make sense…”

Oh  _ great _ \- the only way across the yawning, somewhat terrifying gulf was a single rickety-looking lever-operated thingie on a line. The word for it escaped his mind at present, but he was sure knowing its name would make it no less unnerving. “Bendy, am I going to be able to cross that and live?” He asked quietly, seeking some form of reassurance from the only company he had.

_ P̧r͢ob̴ably,̛ it̵ doe̛s̸n̕'t ̵look̴ ͢bro̕ke̕n,͜ an͝d͘ you ͝do̧n̛'͢t s͢o̧u̵nd ̕too͡ he͡av̡y̛ wal͞k͢iņg on t͠he b̵oar̢d͜s̸. _

At least that was something, he mused, trying to cling to the logic. Stepping up to the lever, he gave it a tug, trying to ignore how squeaky-creaky even that was. Thinking about the disuse and possible degradation of it wasn’t helping. Instead, he watched as the wooden contraption he was supposed to ride in swung closer, nerves fizzing in his stomach.

The drop felt so  _ close _ as he stepped to the edge to clamber aboard, trying not to look into the depths. It was as if the emptiness was clawing for him, trying to claim him. The rattle of the chains as his weight settled into the contraption was a distraction from that train of thought, which was welcome even though it did mean worrying about how well attached those were.

For the first few moments, the ride was actually quite smooth. Kind of relieved, Sammy managed to relax a little, considering that perhaps he’d been overthinking things again. That, of course, was when it stalled, shaking. His grip on the sides of the thing tightened, his entire body tense. What if it fell? Was there any way he could survive? He reached out mentally to his friend, desperate and shot through with fear.

_ Y̩̪̬͇̝o̘̟͓̼u̟̞̥͚͓ͅ ̼͔̱c̠̬̜͉͙̭̕a̴͎͎̠̭̝̩̼n̙̫̥͓̳͞ g͕e̻̼t̷͙̲ͅ ͕̫o͈̟̲̻u̸͙͎̘t̮̥͖̝̜͚͟ ̤̙̝̥͟n̖͈o̜̩͎͙̳͉͍͜w̧͉͍̦̳̟̦,̘͙̠̝ ̢͚̤i̼̳͕̤̫̣t͈͎̩'̴s̫ͅ ̦̩̳̯͉s͎̖͖͠t̰̗̪̩o͖͎̭̱͕̪̖p̣̳̮͇̯p̼͇͉͝e̗̹̰͖͉̱d̰̩̬͠.̢̻ _

Sammy hadn’t even felt the jolt of the contraption making contact with the other side. He glanced around, startled - he’d lost time, not even perceived the rest of the journey. He’d just been… floating. “Thanks...” He managed, scrambling out. Had that been Bendy’s doing, or had he just been so unnerved that he’d zoned out of reality entirely? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to know the answer - he was just incredibly relieved to not be a pancake.

Still shaken, he made his way to the door. For some reason, it looked as though it had once been boarded up, though it no longer was. Who would have done that? Why? Why was there a cage-dangling abyss? “Are we sure this is still the studio and not actually hell?” He asked faintly, as he leaned against the doorframe. For a few moments, he didn’t get an answer, which was somewhat worrying, but then Bendy spoke up.

_ I̡ ̨r̢̞̰e̥̼̗͙̹̬͈m̭̰̰͢e̦̪̱͚m͈̞͉̰̰̮̲͜b̡̮e̯̥͔̫̞͕ͅr͏̙̺̮̺ͅ ҉̪t͟h͉̺̙̞e͍͖̗̳̩ ̳͚t̨̹̞̝̘̭̥͓i̦͔͕̭̝̫me͚̗̭̘̮̗̪ ̹͎͔͖Ḅ̘̦̣ơ͔͖͖͍r̸̤i̼ͅs̹̦ ̰͜ą̗̙͍̞n͕͇̣̘̠̱d҉̠̺̹̼ ̙͓͉͞m̛̤̯̙̬͙̩e̱̼̖͖ ̷̰̗̙͖w͉ͅe͓͇̻͎̳̤͕n̵̞̪̖͉t̥̥̣͔̲͕ ̜̼̺̺ͅt̶̗̯̬o͎̙͔̞̰ ͖̖̤̩h̦͕̩̯̩̳͝e͇̥̰̖l͕̜̪̯̦̬̕l͉̪,̙̠̝̳̲͈ ͓a̼͚͉̻̣nd͓͈͓͎͎͈͝ͅ ̜͙̜̝̱͓͟ͅi̟̲͚͔͜t͙̱͓̜͡ ̼̙̺͘w̫̟͓̺a͚ș̡̞͔ ̵̹̫̹noṱh͝i͓n̝̲̞͕g͚̤͢ l͙͙͖͎̮i̱͕k̷̜̳̞͙e̦̖̦̟ ̶̠͕͈͕ͅṭ̬̜͘h̝̗̺̗͍͉̝͜į̩͓̗͉s͓̘̟̦̹̖̲͠,͕̞͔̘̻̜ _

That wasn’t as definite as he could have hoped for, but it was something. Surely a demon would be able to tell him if they were actually in hell, after all. With a sigh, he straightened up and opened the door, ignoring the creak as he ventured into the dilapidated hallway beyond.

If a piece of architecture could be a zombie, this would be what it would look like - torn wallpaper over dingy thin boards, more fallen planks across the floor, strange shadows and the off-putting stark yellow glow of a light that surely shouldn’t still have had electricity. Even the frames of the hall itself were skewed, slanted though the ceiling above wasn’t.

The sharp metal sound was back - bright yellow engulfed the shaking hall. Inky, desperate arms clawed out of the walls. Droves of them, grabbing at him. Slimy, tight-clinging fingers. With a strained, hoarse sound, he bolted. His foot caught a fallen board - he fell, face smacking into the floor.


	12. Siren Seeking

When he lifted his head, groaning and fully expecting to be seized and dragged into a wall, Sammy realised that the arms were gone. Nothing was shaking any more either, and the brightness was just  _ gone. _ That time in the archives hadn’t been a once off, then… but what  _ was  _ this? Was he in danger? A ragged chuckle escaped him at that thought - of  _ course _ he was in danger. When wasn’t he, now? Picking himself up from the ground, he made his way towards the end of the hallway - only to be brought up short by Bendy’s voice abruptly in his mind, demanding his immediate attention.

_ W̠̠̙̯ą͍̪̘̙i͈̺̲̭t͙̠͈̩͖̫̱!̰̪̘͇̞̭ ͈̖̗̖̝͙S͈͘h̫̱e̳̩͔͕̯'͚̲͓̼̤͔s̷̜ ̗̝̻̱̩ͅl͖̪̭͔̝̺̬͝o̥̺̮͙͉͚͢o͓͖̥̟̟k̤̮̬i̭̘̬̤͙̻͜n̲͓͎̜͖g̙̝̼͖̗̭̼!͏ ̶̖̮̲͉ͅD̺o͔͙̫̠͓ͅn'͎͔t̲̜̫̻͔̞ ̛͚s͉͙̮̥t̞͕͠ḛ̲͕̹͍̞p̴̩̣̱̹͉ ̟o̲̜ͅu͚̘͔̜̜͙͉̕t̨͎̦̣͔̙͓̫!̹͎͙͕̩̱ _

He froze - that was alarming. There was only one ‘she’ he knew of who was active in the studio right now, and that was the one with the penchant for disembowelment.  _ What do you mean, she’s looking? I thought she was all the way upstairs! _ He thought frantically, not daring to speak aloud in case the angel could hear him.

_ S͈͉̠̺͇̫̳h̠̜̻̻̪̹͈e̻̭̦̳͔͉ ̖̫̺̗̲͖ͅha̳̮̹̭̤͢s̭̬̳̜̥̰̣ ̤̺̭̮̪t̴̗͚̭ͅḥ̢̟͍i͉̺̟̻̙͕͙n̦̜͇̹̙͕g̠̼͕̰̪̙s̪̝͖̼͎͉̙ ̼̩͜t̢̝̼͈̳̭͓̪o̬̠̹͓͓͕̠ ͙͖̺͖̱l̻̰̯̗̬͟o̝̞ǫ͍̺k̛ ̼̰t̙̪͔͠h̝͉̝̹̜̕r̷̺̠̠̯o̧͉̟̖̩̫u̙g̲̝̣h̜̩̯̤, j͍̰us̵̻t͍̫̥̤̪͔͎ ̩͚̮̰̺̘̠l̝̦̤̱̠͡i̦k̨͎̜̻̳e͍̝͓̬̺ ̶̯̼̰̰̞̞m͙̺͔̯̺͉e̴̮͈̲͚̰̭̭!̗̗ͅ T̺he̬͍̻͝r͍̠e'͈̙̫̼̼͈s̷͓̯ ͅa̸̻̬̦͎̬̟n̛͕̤̱̮̭̥ ̢̲op̲͉̣͓͚e͡ṋ̘̻͈ ̛̲̼ͅs͏̬͖͇̪p̡̻͔̳͎̗ͅͅa̡c̢̬̹̥͕̗͔̬e̩̞̥̭͉ ̶͉̹u͓͙̫͙͖̖͈p̮ ̬̫̙̪̞͜a̸̻h̜͉͙̮̤e̺̺͎͇a̸̫̖̮̹d̶,̡̗̺̪͕̤̣ͅ ͈̪̳͚̟͚a̼̼̼̘͖̤̭͠n̵͍d̝̝̩̠̠͉̲ ̜s͉̖̺̮͇̬̜h͈e̝ ̖̤̘͝ͅc̗̺̣an͖̠͈̠̮̘ ̹̦͇̜̜̦̫s͇e͓̦e̩̯ ̷̟̘̳i̮̫̗̦̬̼n̵̤t̤̙̬̣̜̘͓o͜ ̙͖i̝̙̫̥ͅt̸̹!̸͕̹̖̘̜͈͖ _

What could he do but wait? He didn’t  _ want _ to linger in the hallway of arms a moment longer, but the angel was considerably deadlier. Hopefully she didn’t actually know he was there, and was just checking as far as she could, but how could he tell? A part of his mind lingered on the notion of both entities having something to  _ look _ through to see what was going on, wondering what that could be, but for the most part he was far too preoccupied with the threat at hand to ask.

_ “I know you’re out there, my little saboteur…”  _ His inky skin crawled at her speaker-crackled, crooning tone. There was something about that which  _ more _ than didn’t sit right with him.  _ “Why not make it easier on yourself and come out now? I  _ might _ be merciful…” _ He didn’t need Bendy whispering in his mind to know that doing so would mean his doom - but there was a strange, compelling quality to her oddly familiar voice…

**_H̟͇̗́̆͋͊̊H̡̼͇̣̮̭̣̥̘̓̈͂S̵̩̪ͣͯ̏̀̓ͩ́ͯS̶͇̘̳̮̤̳͆Ş̧̯̹ͯ̏́ͣ́͂̋̋S͕̗̥̓̽͢ͅS̷̨̨̟͎͊̓ͧ͂ͫͯͥS̨̪͈͒͌̑ͮ̀̃̂ͫS̤͉̀̂ͭͫͩ͞S̟̣̱̫̰̦͙͇ͨ͋̈ͯ̇̉͒͝S͉̫͕̪͙̓̂̓̆͘S̰̥̯̣̋ͪ̽̌ͤͭͩŞ̭̘̯͓͉͆̀̈́̏͟͟S̷̊̄ͮ̂̎̅̒͜҉̠̮̺̥ͅS͚͉͚̞̗̫͙͑͆̅͘͞S̢̛̞̝̪̜̹̰̲̗͐̈́̾ͤͤ̉̽S̪͒̊̋ͪ̓͒̎Ș͇͈̔̊̓̚ͅS͚̩͕̫̹̱̗ͫ͗̅̊ͤ̂̃S̸̮͈̞̍̑ͫͬ̀͠Sͨͭͧ̂͒̓̀҉̫̖̤̤͈͍͝͠S̡̖̰̠ͮ̌̄̔͛̔!̍ͧͭ͗̃͗͟͡͠_ **

Clutching his aching head, he crumpled half to the ground, sinking the rest of the way deliberately so that he could sit down. That had  _ hurt _ \- but as the pain cleared enough to allow him to process, he realised that he was closer to the end of the hall than he had been before Bendy’d hissed at him. When had he taken those steps?  _ Why _ had he taken those steps?

_ I'̸m̷ sorry̵ I̴ ͢hu̧r̷t yo̕ư, ͠sh͡e̢ w͏as l̶u͟ri͡ng you! _

The immediate drop in the intensity of Bendy’s voice was a great relief, but his words remained very much a worry. _ Why didn’t you tell me she could _ do _ that?! _ It really seemed like  _ exactly _ the sort of thing he ought to be warned of when it came to angelic murderers.

_ I͞ d͠idn'̶t̛ kno͡w͏! She's ̵j͟u̷st͘ ̶use͝d̸ ͏food̴ and amb̕u̶s̸h ̧b͘efo͠re… _

Well lovely. Clamping his hands over where he had once had ears, he tried to block out the sound of her voice in case it happened again. That muffled everything somewhat, though he could still tell that she was speaking. Bendy decided to contribute by trying to engage him in conversation, asking him about what the outside world was like, what his favourite food was, and other such things.

Eventually, Bendy gave him the all-clear, murmuring to him that the angel’s focus had shifted. This time, he didn’t bother questioning how he knew, figuring he could just sense it or something. What mattered more was whether Bendy was  _ sure _ that there was no angelic scrutiny on him.

Slowly, he crept out into the open area, glancing around. The sight of another of those odd Bendy statues reassured him somehow, though the lack of a proper floor once again seemed ominous. Why the hell did there need to be yawning gulfs in an animation studio, or all those chains? By now, it seemed pointless and repetitive to keep questioning things like this, but he was afraid that if he didn’t keep reminding himself that this was  _ not normal, _ he might find himself forgetting that it had ever been different.

Peering up, glancing briefly down - both ways, it seemed as though the hole skewered the entire studio. He couldn’t see an end to it, in either direction. That was somewhat unnerving, especially with how many fallen boards he’d seen around the place. Disrepair was a serious problem, even without such an inexplicable shaft through the place.

Clambering carefully up the rickety-looking balcony work, he tried not to think about how easily it could all just crumble and send him hurtling down. As he passed the poster of Alice Angel, he ducked down to avoid crossing its gaze. Perhaps that was superstitious of him, but under the circumstances, he felt justified.

Scaling the spiraling structure was tiring, especially as stressed as he was, so the sight of a working doorway - with a couch immediately past it - was greatly welcome. Striding across the tiled floor, noting that this room seemed in much better repair, he sank onto the couch with a sigh. It was good to get off his feet, and somehow seeing another of those statues was reassuring.

For some reason or another, there was a record player on the cushion beside him - he was tempted to set it going, for the familiarity of it, but he didn’t want to risk alerting the angel or any other creatures. On the other couch, he could see what looked like an inky butt-print, as though someone else had been sitting there, but no sign of whoever it had been.

Glancing around as he got some much-needed rest, he could see another strange, ink-spewing open pipe, near what looked for all the world like an outhouse with a halo drawn on it. Had someone set that up because toilets weren’t working? ...Come to think of it, he hadn’t needed to use the bathroom since he’d woken into this bizarre setting - did he even still need that?  
  
Moving on from such thoughts, he eyed the blocky metal contraption next to it with considerably higher interest, getting up to inspect it more closely. Was that a vending machine? It  _ was _ \- but to his disgust, no matter how he poked and pried at it, nothing would come out. It was as though it was just a solid object decorated to  _ look  _ like a vending machine - that, or he’d need more force to break it open, and he couldn’t do that without risk now. Thankfully, in the chest not far away, he was at least able to find a can of soup to eat. The lack of variety wasn’t great, but it was still filling.


	13. Lost Together

Once he felt a bit more rested, his nerves a little more calmed, Sammy stood from the couch once again. The lounge was nice - a good place to catch his metaphorical breath - but he doubted he could get away with staying there indefinitely. Sooner or later, someone else would show up, and he had no way of knowing if there was a chance they wouldn’t be hostile. Well, Bendy  _ might _ be able to give a heads up, but why take the chance?

Heading for the door beneath the balcony, Sammy tried to remember where it would lead. It was… fuzzy, unclear. Like reaching for something in cloudy water, and realising that a current had already tugged it away. It was disconcerting, but he drew some comfort from recalling that he’d written some things down before he’d come this far.

As the door creaked open, Sammy gasped, staring - he didn’t even immediately register the ink leaking into a huge puddle in the middle of the floor, he was too distracted by the  _ numerous _ other inky figures crowded within. He tensed, but none of them made even the slightest movement towards him, just… shivering and swaying a little.

Behind them, he could just about see that someone had scrawled  _ NO ANGELS! _ on the wall - a sentiment he could get behind. It was greatly encouraging, too - if they could write, surely they had minds! He stepped into the room slowly, closing the door behind him and keeping his axe lowered as they stared mournfully at him with glowing yellow eyes, ink dripping like tentacles from their faces.

_ T͢h̡e͝ ̷lost͞ o̕ņeş.̢.. _

Bendy recognised them? Hopefully that meant he’d be able to tell him more - they might not be attacking him, but they were still rather ghoulish, and he was wary of them.

_ The͝y̵ ̸won't ͝h͠ur͘t ͞y̴o͡u͟ un̨le̷ss̶ y͝o̶u t̸hr̛eate͞n t̵h̨em̴. _

That was a profound relief, and some of the tension eased from his shoulders. He’d hated having to kill the Butcher Gang, and the idea of having to fight the lost ones - who were so much like scrawnier versions of him who’d somehow gotten to keep all their fingers - well, it wasn’t palatable. Not to mention, there were rather a lot of them, and only one of him.

“Hello… I’m Sammy… I’m not here to hurt you…” He murmured, keeping his tone gentle and soft, as though he was talking to a frightened child. He could feel their gaze on him, those who’d been huddled on the floor looking up to regard him. They were wary of him, too, he could tell.

Slowly, some of them began to draw nearer, carefully examining him. He held still for this scrutiny, not wanting to alarm them. What could they be thinking? It wasn’t clear, but at least they didn’t seem to be fleeing in fear or trying to wrench his head off.

“Hello… Sammy…” One of them responded, tone soft and tentative. They sounded as though they  _ might _ be male, but it was impossible to be certain. Despite their lack of trousers or any other garment, there was no way to tell visually either, let alone see hints of who in particular this might be.

“What’s your name?” Sammy asked gently, peering at the one who’d spoken, but they only shook their head resignedly, as if to say that they had no name to give. Something curdled in his stomach, cold and heavy. “Do… any of you know your names?” As they glumly shook their heads, the fear that he too might lose his grasp on his name surfaced again.

_ If̴ yo̧u̕ do̡ st̢art͠ ͜to f͜o͝r̷gȩt, I can ͝rem͢inḑ ͡y͞ou ͞- an͠d yo͝u̢r̸ n̡a̶me is w̧ŗi͝t͝te̷n įn ̕y͞o͘ur̕ d̴e̶p͘ar͜t̨me͝n̸t͟.͘ _

That at least was reassuring, though the very real possibility that he might  _ need _ that help was distinctly less so.  _ Thanks, Bendy. _ He thought anyway, trying not to dwell on it. “Well, uh… names aside, are you folks okay?” He could definitely tell why Bendy called them the lost ones.

They didn’t seem to know what to say to that, peering between him and one another. “Nobody… is okay… but we aren’t dying or injured…” The spokeslost murmured back, after a few moments. “Do you… know when we can… go home?” Their plaintive tone tugged at his heart, and he stared for a moment, trying to figure out what he could tell them.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know.” He responded, shaking his head. “If and when I find out that we can leave, I promise I’ll tell you.” He felt a strong swell of protectiveness within him as their forlorn gaze flickered with faint hope, and he laid his axe down against a barrel to better handle his banjo. He couldn’t get these people out, not just yet, and he couldn’t tell them who they were - but he  _ could _ sing for them. He  _ could _ share what he remembered.

Beginning to strum, he glanced around at them, watching their attention shift into greater focus. He was still kind of afraid that the angel might track him down, but in an enclosed space like this, and if he kept it quiet, perhaps it would be okay. As the rest of the lost ones gathered slowly around him, and the faint floaty feeling of Bendy’s attention grew a little stronger, Sammy began to sing.

Memories like those of what floor was what or who his coworkers had all been might be fading, but he could still remember the songs he knew. Not only those he’d written for the studio, either, but others as well. Songs about the summer sky, about birds, about love, about farming, about life in the city - he sang them as he thought of them, wanting to give these trapped, hopeless souls something to hold onto.


	14. Screamless

Weariness overtaking him after what had definitely been a long day, Sammy found himself resting among the lost ones, not sure that he could safely carry on without some sleep. It felt safer, among them - if something happened, surely someone would notice, and they could escape whatever threat came together.

Sleep didn’t reach him immediately, as he lay quietly on the hard tiles, but not because of any physical discomfort. He was used to that by now, and tired enough that he’d be able to fall asleep regardless. Instead, it was some of the things his new acquaintances had said to him that spun through his head, delaying his slumber.

They’d asked him how he had managed to keep hold of so much of himself, how he handled the screaming and buzzing in his head, the feelings of being dragged down into the dark… He hadn’t known what to tell them at first, not entirely sure what they meant, and more than a little uncomfortable with the subject. He didn’t understand why, but it seemed that every single one of them had a constant whirl of  _ screams _ in their heads.

It was unsettling to think of, especially when he recalled the tinnitus he’d had to start with, a buzz not unlike what they’d described, just… much less. Would that have developed into something this severe, if it hadn’t stopped for some reason? Would he have, if he hadn’t melted down like the band, crumpled into a shadow of himself like these poor souls, not even knowing his name? Why had it stopped? Could it still happen?

...Hadn’t the buzzing stopped around the time he first heard Bendy’s voice? He’d had grating and rasping in his head sometimes since, but that had an entirely different feel to it, and it was nowhere near constant - only when Bendy needed to rein in his voice a little. Would he have become lost if it hadn’t been for the demon? He felt a swell of gratitude and relief, though still tempered by the worry that he could still find himself lost in the same whirlpool of voices the others described.

_ W̛e͏r̶e͜ ͢y̸ou̧ ͏a͠skin̶g͘ me͝ s͝o̴meth͘i͢ņg? I th̶oug͝h͠t I ̡h̛e̷a̶rd̷ ̶m̢y name͘.͝ _

Bendy! The very demon who might have the answers he was looking for! His thoughts were a little disjointed as he tried to present them to the demon, but he was fairly sure he managed to get his point across as he tried to ask him whether his suppositions about the demon and his tinnitus were true.

Bendy was quiet for a little while, mulling this all over. Sammy was sure he’d known about the screams - he’d been a fount of knowledge so far, after all, and this seemed to be quite a pervasive thing, perhaps even intrinsic to the ink they were made of.

_ I  _ **_̧did̛_ ** _ ch̶a͠ng̡e you͠r͠ c͘o͘n̕nec͘ti̢on͡s̛ a͠ bit͘.̴.͝. T̨h̕ey wer̢e͡ ͘şt͟i͠l̷l fo̶rmi͠ng when͟ ̨I̕ ͜f̨ǫu͜n͡d y̴o̢u̸, ͢a̸nd͜ ͠I ͘th̢ơu̧gh̵t i͞t̸ w͢o̷u͜ld̴ b͘e̴ ̛e͞asie̡r for̡ y̧o̵u ͏t͝o̡ h̶e̶ar ̧m̴e ̢w̷itho͝ut i͘t ͡h̕ur̛ting i̵f͡ ͘t̨h͏e h̸owling̢ d̵i̸dn't̴ ̷g͠et ̧i͞n͠ the ͜wa͜y.̡ _

He really  _ had _ come between him and the screams that were ceaselessly tormenting the lost ones… that was quite something to take in, and Sammy needed a moment or two to process it.  _ Thank you… _ He didn’t want to imagine what it would have been like to have his identity eroded away by unending screams.

_ Yo̧u̢'re wel̛c̵om̶e.͏.̴. ͏n̷ǫw͠ ͠g̵e͠t͘ ̛s̶ome̵ ̕s̕leep,͜ ̢okay? _

When he woke, Sammy had no idea whether or not he’d dreamed, only that his stomach was growling at him. As he couldn’t feel any of his demonic guide’s floatiness, he figured it was probably just his own hunger. Well, he knew how to deal with that, at least. Getting up, he began to take a look around the room to see if there were any cans of soup.

Finding none, he decided to approach one of the lost to ask about it. They seemed startled to be approached for anything, and it took them a moment or two of contemplation to figure out an answer. Unfortunately, that answer was that no, they had no food. Apparently some of them had ventured out to search for some while he’d slept, and hadn’t yet returned.

Hoping that they were alright, but not wanting to worry the lost, Sammy didn’t question how long it usually took. Instead, he asked whether they’d checked inside the boxes. “Long… ago… they are… hiding places, now…” The lost replied, shaking their head slowly. Hiding places? He could quite easily picture them cramped and cowering inside those wooden crates, waiting for danger to pass. Poor souls… not a bad idea, though, in a pinch.

“I see… Do you mind if I head out now? I’ll come back to visit you if I can.” He asked, his stomach still doing its best to motivate haste. Thankfully, the answer he got was that nobody minded, though they did wish him good luck. It felt nice, to be wished that, and who knew? Maybe in a place like this, it would make a difference.

Stooping to pick up his things, Sammy noticed something stuck to the back of his banjo. Was that the head of the cutout from before? It felt like so long ago that he’d first picked that up, but it hadn’t really been that long, had it? Nonetheless, he couldn’t actually remember sticking it to his banjo, or with what.  
  
Tugging it gently, he deemed it likely that it would come off if he tried, but he still wasn’t sure what was sticking it. Thick ink, like the angel had been searching for, perhaps? Strange… Another strangeness presented itself as he realised that actually, the cutouts were usually much larger in head size than the grinning Bendy face staring back at him. Had he found a small one before, or had it somehow shrunk? If it had, no matter how weird that was, it  _ did _ make it more portable. Deciding to just carry on, he headed to the vent with his stuff in tow.


	15. Press On

It was cramped and clunky in the vent, his every movement rattling the metal. Hopefully, that wasn’t a sound anyone was about to associate with him, but he couldn’t be certain. Well… maybe if the lost used it a fair amount, it would just seem like a normal, background kind of sound? The thought didn’t make it any more  _ comfortable, _ though. He wasn’t as sticklike as the others, and the tight squeeze and crawling on his knees was less than pleasant, especially carrying his things with him.

His vision was still far from what it had once been, but… it seemed that despite the darkness in the vent, he was able to see almost as well as he could outside it - not that that was much by now. However he  _ was _ seeing, perhaps it wasn’t quite how he had used to see. A thought to dwell more on another time, maybe, but he had other concerns right now.

Peering through the grates as he came to them, he tried to get a feel for the rooms on the other side of the wall. It was interesting, and he hoped that he might see something useful, like maybe a stash of soup or something. What he hadn’t expected, though, was that ominous, rhythmic thudding sound, resonating through the vent surfaces and buzzing against his knees through the metal. It was ominous, but he followed the sound anyway, out of a need to know what was going on.

Oh. Oh no. Through one of the grates, he was able to find the source of that thumping - a lost one in a tiny little room, maybe a cupboard. They were… repeatedly bashing their head against the wall, into a splatterstain of ink that seemed to indicate that they’d been doing this for quite some time. “Hello?” He called, hoping that he could reach them, perhaps help them. “Can you hear me?”

The lost one didn’t even look, no pause in their actions, and Sammy felt a lurch in his gut, sympathy mixed with a muted sort of horror. “Bendy… what  _ happened _ to them..? Why are they doing this..?” He asked softly, not yet quite able to look away. “If I went in there… could I help them?”

_ I'm̨ ̛sor͢r̨y,̕ S̶am̸m̴y, t͘hey ̴c͠a͟n't ̸ḩȩar ̴you̡.͟.. I͘ d͜o͘n't͘ kn̸o̸w̸ w̶h̕y t̵hey͟'re doi̕n̡g t͞hi͠s,͞ b̢u͢t͡ ͟I̵ do͡n̨'̛t th̷i͜n̢k ̡they̨ ͝wo͞ul̕d ̵k͠now͟ you͜ ͡we̕re͢ ̧th͘e̷r̸e.̵.͜. an̨d̵ t͜h̡ey͟'͏d̨ just ͝keep͞ ̨go͡i̕ng͘ agaįn ͜af͠te͘r͜ y̛ou ͝le͡ft͡ if͠ ͜y̡o͞u̷ s͞t͝o͢p̸pe͘d ̵them.̴ _

Disheartened, he tore his gaze from the lost, shuffling away through the vent. He still wanted to help this poor soul, but he just didn’t know  _ how. _ Maybe once he got out, he could get them some help. Surely  _ someone  _ would know what to do… right? If something like this could happen once, maybe it had happened before, and there were people who could help them handle the aftermath?

Finally, he came upon an uncovered exit, sliding out of the vent to stretch his limbs in relief. It was good to have  _ space _ again. Glancing around, he could see quite a large statue of his constant companion, which felt kind of comforting to look at. Another of those maybe outhouse things stood near a cutout, which he waved to, managing a chuckle. There was a couch, too, which he took a moment to rest on, registering the sign that informed him he was in the Storage 9 area.

For some reason, someone had daubed the words  _ DREAMS COME TRUE _ over the vent opening. It was a phrase that felt very familiar, as though he’d heard it countless times before. He wondered who might have written it… Well, whoever they were, they weren’t around at the moment, so he figured he might as well move on, getting up again.

Heading for the stairs, he noticed that there was quite a bit of ink staining them, as though it had run down them in an inky waterfall. Thankfully, this wasn’t fresh enough to make him slip, though. Reaching the top, he glanced around with interest - there was a lot going on in that round little nook, wasn’t there? Not activity, but a lot of busy images. What could this be? It certainly wasn’t food, but he was rather curious, and he thought it would help to have something to fill his mind with besides the forlorn thumping.

Billboards covered in notes and illustrations his dim eyes drank in thirstily, and a map upon the table, little blocks marking out certain locations - a memory tickled at him as he realised what he was looking at. Of course! The  _ park! _ Had they ever finished that..? He didn’t actually know, but it was good to get to see something wholesome for a change. From the slightly warm feeling at the back of his mind, he rather thought Bendy agreed with him on that point.

What was that switch on the wall for? It took him a while to notice it, engrossed in the park paraphernalia as he was, but it was prominent enough to catch his eye eventually. Ambling over, he decided to flip it. Why not? It might turn on something useful, and then he wouldn’t have to backtrack to get it working. What it might be, he wasn’t certain, but still. The creaky ratchet-like sound it made was quite satisfying, too, so there was that.

Ah! There had been a door downstairs he’d completely missed, one that was now open! So  _ that _ was what he’d just operated… Heading back down the stairs, he made a beeline for it, figuring that he might be able to find food through it.  Strings of lights clicked echoingly on, yellowed glow illuminating a grandiose, vandalised sign as though his entry had flipped another, unseen switch. It was clearly the Bendy Land sign, but it had been modified by some inky hand to Bendy  _ Hell.  _ An understandable sentiment, but somewhat eerie…


	16. Fun and Games

More and more as he’d been going through the studio, Sammy had been struck by the sight of Bendy’s face, and there was a familiar sort of feeling to that, as though perhaps he’d dwelt on that before. It was only a vague impression, though, and he had more pressing matters to think on than a hint of deja vu. Giving the face on the sign a little wave, and wondering who had managed to vandalise it and how, Sammy headed down the stairs.

A punch clock? He wasn’t sure if he’d been missing these along the way until now, or if they had simply sprouted up while he wasn’t looking, but he was a little confused. He couldn’t recall whether it made sense to have one this deep, or if it should have always just been at the door out. Then again, had the place made much sense before all this anyway? He shrugged, but tried the punch clock anyway, as it made a satisfying sound.

Shelves and piles of pallets dominated the dusty space, among barrels, boxes and assorted incomplete attractions. What had the giant Alice heads ever been intended for? He couldn’t call anything to mind besides maybe statues, but these were disembodied. There also seemed to be bins dedicated to Bendy, like demons in barrels waiting to eat people’s rubbish. Something about that seemed faintly wrong to him, but he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because they had no teeth? Or that Boris was the one eating all the time? He wasn’t sure.

Pausing by the carousel horses, all lined up with nowhere to go, he patted one gently. It made no sense to do, but somehow he wanted to. They weren’t real, but he liked horses, and he felt somewhat sorry for these. They’d probably never even been used, just… waiting forever, gathering dust. Just like a lot of this place, he supposed. Had anyone played these games in years? He wasn’t sure he’d ever had a go down here, if it had really been here back before the ink.

Not seeing an immediate way out through any of the doors he’d found, and not feeling like prising them open by hand if he didn’t have to, Sammy decided to have a go at the games. With things as grim as they were, a bit of cheer surely wouldn’t go amiss, and perhaps he’d find a tool he needed along the way? It was certainly better than just sitting and moping.

Drifting towards the ball toss, he found a can of soup, near another cutout of the grinning demon. Deciding that food took a higher priority, he cracked it open and toasted the demon, before starting to drain the can, intent on drinking the whole thing in one. It clattered against the wood as he put it down, but nothing seemed to react to the sound. It seemed he was really alone, at least physically.

Striding up to the shooting gallery, Sammy lifted the gun into his hands, immediately startled by the movement and music coming from the game. It still worked? He hadn’t even pushed a button… Nonetheless, this meant he could have some fun, and he grinned as he began to open fire on the clear targets, enjoying the ping sounds as they were knocked back. There was a pleasant little tinkle, too, when he won. It wasn’t a lot, but it lifted his spirits anyway.

The ball toss, on the other hand, he found he had rather more trouble with. Were these balls rigged? They never seemed to throw consistently, even when he used the same amount of force. Weirdly, the bottles seemed to… instantaneously revert to their stacked formations when he was out of tosses. He was  _ sure _ that wasn’t how it was supposed to work, but there wasn’t anything to be done about that. He didn’t actually manage to knock everything down in three, but after a while, the game tinkled anyway - had he won? That still confused him as he drifted away from it.

Was that a test your strength game? A sense of nostalgia wafted through him as he approached, growing more pronounced as he lifted the mallet. He couldn’t quite grasp the wispy memory, but it felt as though this was something he’d enjoyed before, perhaps with someone else. Maybe when he’d been younger? Peering up at the goofy little face on the top, he practised his swing a few times, before slamming the mallet down onto the target, a familiar glee lighting in him when he heard it ring out his victory. “Still got it~”

Wait. Had the door nearest the shooting gallery opened? That was  _ interesting _ \- how had that happened? Was that the way out? With no more games to entertain himself with, besides the ride that seemed to be out of power, he decided to head on through.

Shelves and a work bench greeted him at first, along with what looked like a picture of a gear. Why had anyone decided to frame that? He ignored it and moved on, finding himself in a little nook of a room, with ink splattered Bendy costumes staring at him from the wall. Could he have… waited? Just… got his clothes from here..? Then again, would he even have come down this far if he hadn’t had to flee from the angel in the first place? Shaking off the uncomfortable thought, he noticed a switch on the wall. Ohhh, was this for the ride? Feeling that he was working things out, he flipped it.

A black line he hadn’t noticed along the floor before he’d stepped out of the cubby seemed to have glowing little pulses running through it - naturally, he decided to follow it. He  _ really  _ wasn’t sure this was how it was supposed to look when there was power through a line, but he didn’t care at this point, finding where it had lit up a switch on the ride and pulling on that handle. It was oddly convoluted, but the sound was still satisfying.

Another door seemed to be open, too, one marked as Research and Design. Would there be another switch in there? It seemed likely, so he began to amble towards it, wondering what he’d find within.


	17. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Striding out onto a balcony, Sammy peered around with interest and a touch of wariness. A clang - the door had shut firmly behind him - that couldn’t be good. Why have a door that  _ did _ that? He couldn’t find a lever nearby to open it again, either - it had to be down one of those paths on the floor beneath. Grumbling quietly about the absurdity of this, he leaned over the edge to see if he could make out any detail.

Besides an inky waterfall, which seemed to be a fairly common feature around these parts now, he could also make out one thing in particular quite clearly. Who had set that barrel alight? It was clearly a contained fire, so some thought had to have gone into it, but - wait, were those inky figures curled up in slumber around it? Three of them… It was really hard to make out any features, but they were quite the wrong proportions to be the lost or those like his band.

“Is… that who I think it is..?” He asked quietly, a knot of tension and revulsion in his gut. He’d hoped to avoid more undead Butcher Gang encounters, but it seemed that his path through the studio had other plans for him. Had  _ they _ made that fire, or chased off whoever had? If they’d made it themselves, did that mean they could think? He knew it had been kill or be killed the last time, but the thought that maybe they’d been people still made his stomach turn.

Bendy didn’t answer right away, but Sammy could feel a stirring at the back of his mind. Had the demon been sleeping? Hungry again? The thought reminded him that there was a can of soup right near him on the edge of the balcony, and he decided to drain it to calm his nerves.

_ T͡h̟o̡̦s̢̖̮e͇͓̥̻̝̦ ̷̩̣̻̥̞̰a̝̥̼͕͕͙̮͘r̭͙̫̟͇e̱̲͇̪̮̠̼͡ ̣̗̟ṱ̡͔̬h̦̹͍e̥̰̩̰̰ͅ ̴͉̯̝̫̤B̵͖̞̺̩u̥͢t͕͟c̘h͉͞e̸r̤̺̯̭̻̻̳ ̗͙̦̯̣̣͡Ga̪̗͉͉n̲͔͘g̢̘̠̯̗͕̗̬,̡̖͔̲̱ ͍̭̲̭ͅỵ̝̕e͡s̞̮͈ͅ.͓͟..͕̰̩̗ ͉Y̬̹̞͔̹̦̺͢ọ̦̜u̙͉̰'̬̩̖̩̻͔̙͘r̸͎e͎̻̩͍͉͉͎͠ g͔͉͉̜͚o̵̬̦̘̙̱̙ḭ̲͓̙̯͔ͅn̞̭͚̩̯̠̞g̲͖̜͕̬̣̠͝ ̺t̼̹̹̜o̶̼ ̯̭̺͔h̡̟̮a̪v̧̯̣͈̘̜̣ͅe̫̱̹̫̲̹ͅ ̷t͇̼o ̙̤̯͇̺̹̺s̷̻͕͉̣̣̮n̡̰̣͖͖̝̫e̤̯̣̗a̝̭k̡̩͎ͅ p̺a̹̩͠s͇̫t̰̙̜ ̻̠t̸͔̝̳̠h̩͍̰̺͓e̢͓̲͕̖̞͕m.͓̥̮̹̟̗͇ B̟͎̜̖̬͉͎e̸̤͇͍͈̯̬̳ ̩c͖̪̺̻͖̦a̮̙͇͍͠r̖͎̝e̥͖͕̯̩f͉u̶̠͖l͏͓̫̩̩̰.͇̕.̬͈.̛͈̖ ̝̰̦̯t̝̪̥͓͓͝h͏e̲͖̗i̞͇̹̻r̶̮ ͓̭̬̮͘h̰̤̯̮̬̜e̝͙̺̞͖̺͝a̰͍r͖̤̖̣ͅi̴̮̫̱n̳̱̺̼̘̻g̸͙ ͙̻i͍̱̝s̫̰̦̭ ͈͔̟̩̳̩̲͡q̵̰͍u̡̖͎̤̯ị͈͙̯̰t͕̲͓̲̝̝̰͟e͕͔̙̜̻͡ ͚͖͙g̴̘͚̻̱̯̳͙o̵̱͚̥͚̰̹͍ơ͉̖̝̥ͅd̗̲.̩͈̣̺̝̗ _

Sammy winced a little, rubbing his head. Yes, it did seem as though he’d disturbed Bendy in some way, from the grating quality of his voice, but at least he’d gotten some valuable advice. So long as the Butchers were sleeping, perhaps he had a decent shot at this… With this hope in mind, he began to cautiously creep down the stairs, trying not to let them creak.

With each step, he felt a nervous jangling sense of being far louder than he really was, frequently glancing across to check that they were still asleep. He knew he could take them on and win, but that didn’t mean he wanted to if he didn’t have to. Peering across at them as he slunk down the first pathway, he felt a tickle of pity for them, so warped from their old selves - especially poor Edgar, who’d been so sweet.

Bare shelves to one side of him yielded no help, and a meshed off area to his right seemed to contain mostly a single lost curled up asleep on the floor. He honestly wasn’t sure why they were in there, but given the mesh, they were probably safe from the Butchers. He decided not to bother them, in case they made some kind of sound that would draw in the Butchers.

Further in, stools sat alongside work tables, with a weird pair of duck heads clearly visible even to him, and what looked like writing on the far wall. Stepping closer, he could make it out -  _ THE CREATOR LIED TO US _ \- did that mean Joey? He couldn’t think who else it could be, considering all that the bastard had caused. There also seemed to be a little dispenser thing, like he’d seen somewhere before, but his attention was more immediately grabbed by something else on the tables.

Tall, slumped across the table and clearly incomplete, but almost lifelike somehow, there was an animatronic of the demon himself. It was somehow eerie to look at, as though at any moment it might sit up and grab him, but it wasn’t budging. There was an odd splatter of ink on the floor beneath it, too, and a vent opening right next to the thing. Unlike the cutouts and statues, it sent a scuttle of unease running through him, and he tore his gaze from it to stride to the switch he’d spotted and flip it.

Sneaking out once again, he shivered a little as he finally registered the gigantic angel faces along one side, and the huge arm hanging aloft above it all. What was the  _ purpose _ of those things? They were  _ creepy, _ and he didn’t like them at all. Keeping his steps as light as possible, he slunk around the other side, thankful that the gang were still snufflingly snoring.

This part was a lot smaller, not much besides the odd barrel, some shelving and a switch on the wall. More of a nook than anything, really. Well, there  _ were _ pictures on the wall, but he didn’t really feel like appreciating them just now. He pulled it, feeling a sense of relief and accomplishment - but as he turned the corner,  _ Charley. _ What had woken them? What did he do wrong?

Ink clouding his vision as he was struck, he poured on as much speed as he could. No sense in stopping to fight if he could outpace them to the stairs. There, he’d have the high ground. His foot caught on a stair, pain lancing up through his leg as he stumbled, falling forwards. He could hear the hoarse babbling behind him. He had to get away before they set upon him. Scrambling up on all fours, he’d have panted if he still had breath. For some reason though, he hadn’t been struck again. Odd..

...Not that he was complaining, but why weren’t they following him up the stairs? Pausing at the top to gather himself, he stared at them as they just… gravitated back to their fire. Maybe these ones were more territorial than randomly aggressive, and they just wanted him off their patch? A good thing he didn’t intend to go back there...


	18. Do You Think It Still Works?

Once he’d followed the light-pulsing line back to the haunted house and pulled the next switch, Sammy paused for a moment or two. From the faint stirring at the back of his mind, he thought that perhaps Bendy was more alert now. Considering how weirdly spaced out the switches were from the ride that required them, and that he’d already been attacked while seeking these, Sammy hoped that the demon would have some insight.

Between mouthfuls of another can of soup, Sammy caught him up on what he’d encountered so far, which seemed to intrigue Bendy. Sammy wasn’t able to explain to him why it would be so skinny and tall compared to the ‘on model’ appearance of the dancing demon, not being all that sure himself, but for some reason hearing about it seemed to encourage Bendy. Well, that was positive, at least, but it had still given Sammy the creeps. He decided against telling him that, though, in case it took the wind out of his sails.

_ D̷o̢ y͟o͜u t̸hin̷k ̶it s̛ti̷ll ͡w͜orks̨? _

That was… a good question, to be honest. “I don’t know… it wasn’t exactly  _ intact… _ and I don’t know if they ever did have it up and running.” He responded, rubbing the back of his head a little as he considered the notion. “I mean… it’s  _ possible _ that it might work, at least a little bit… I can’t exactly just go back and check though, there are Butchers in there.” A fair point, he felt - and as Bendy didn’t seem to press him on it, he figured the demon agreed.

Setting aside the now-empty can, Sammy decided to see where the next trail led him. Ambling along between heaped sandbags and assorted oddments, he found himself approaching an opened doorway marked as Attraction Storage. Hadn’t he already been among attractions, of sorts? What made this part different? Did it contain more complete things, perhaps?

_ Sea̢r̕c͢h ̸m͜e ͘- ͞I ͟n͝ev̶er͞ got͟ ͘tol͏d̕ a͠b͡out ͜th̡ese͝ ͞t̡h͟i̵ngs. _

Huh, that was odd - he’d have thought that if Joey had somehow managed to create a real live Bendy, he’d have wanted to show him everything… Then again, Joey would  _ also _ have wanted to show him off to all and sundry, wouldn’t he? Sammy might have forgotten a fair amount, but he was pretty sure he’d remember a little demon being paraded around the studio even now.

_.̼͓͇̮̖.̣̮̣̗̮͕̝.̨̣͍̗̫̠͖T̝͈̤͚̰̫hi͜n̞g̤s̗̗̝͎͈͍͟ ͞d̝̱̞i̝̣̖̣̟d̹̭̦͎͎̦̼͝n̺'̦͔t̥͔̲̦̜͖͕ ̲̦͖͙̼͕̕g̼͢o͖͉͉̪ q̪̪͉̲̭ͅu̗̼̮̦͈͝i̷͕̹̪̮̮̮ͅt̢̜̺͉e̻̱̯̦̝̝ ̸̪̣̳tͅh̥̳̙̙̼͡a̴͈̺͖̩̩̣t̵ ͉̟͇͈̥͕wͅe͡ll͜ͅ.͞.̹̮̝̙.͈̥̳͉̯ͅ ̵̫I̴͎̳̬̗͓͕ d̸̺͇͔o̺̦̦̫͡n͔͎̦̫̝̱'t̩̠ ̦͇w̩̼̮̹a̛̬̖̣͎͈n̹n͙͔̺a̠̠͍̬ͅ ̤̱̹̳̠̰͉t̜̰͎̩̼͖̯a̸͖̠̫ḻ̦̰̯ͅͅk ̻a̠̤͈̰̱̹b̷̤͓̮o͉͇̩̝u̼̼͉͔t͉͜ i͎̲̖̙t̰͜.̜ _

That… didn’t sound too promising, but he nodded slightly as he rounded the corner, idly noting what looked to be a little cart with a grinning face resting on one of the shelves. “I’m not going to pry if you aren’t comfortable with it.” He assured the demon, though he couldn’t help wondering what might have happened. He certainly wouldn’t put it past Joey to have alienated even the star of the show he obsessed over as much as he did.

The lights were kind of flickery, making another of those work hard, work happy posters kind of creepier than it really needed to be. By now, though, that wasn’t too much of a bother. With a sort of rambling curiosity, Sammy peered at the many boxes and carts on the shelves. There was also, as he only noticed when he almost stepped on it, the unfortunate corpse of an Edgar. He yelped, startled, and stepped back. Nothing boiled out of the shadows to attack him, though. “Why is there a dead Edgar? ...Don’t these usually melt..?” The Butchers he’d killed had melted… but the corpses of the Borises had been solid…

_ I̶ ͠do͜n̛'t͡ ͝know͠ ̷w͢h͞y͢ some m͝el̢t̶ and sǫm͜e͝ r͏e̶main.̷.͝. G̨i̷ve̡n ̷e̢nơu͡gh ̴time̛, ̴m͟a̴yb̷e̷ the s̕ol͟i͘d̶ ̕o͏n̢es̴ w͟i͢ll ͜m̨el͝t t͟oo..̢. ͠I͢t͜ ͡c͞ǫu͘l͠d͢ ͡b͝e ̧a h̡e͝alth̷ ͝t̛h̨in̡g̶? _

It looked as though Bendy’s guess was as good as his, when it came to this. Well… no matter - it wasn’t important right now, was it? Deciding he wanted to get away from the corpse in case it turned out to not be as dead as he thought - perhaps just comatose and healing - Sammy headed for the next chamber along on the path. There  _ were _ vending machines in the immediate vicinity, but he didn’t fancy going for something from those right now, particularly if they were as resistant as the ones earlier.

The room beyond was  _ much _ more impressive - it was wide open, ornately framed posters he couldn’t read properly all around the walls, which themselves seemed to be tilted inward for some reason. In the very middle of it all, there was also a large contraption - a  _ fairground ride _ \- one of the sort that had arms with seating at the end, and lift them up as it whirled around. He’d quite forgotten the name, but he’d used to love those, he was sure!

There were also some boxes around, and an odd sort of desk, but Sammy paid those no mind - there was a  _ ride _ to try! “Bendy, look! Do you think it works?” He asked, actually excited for once in his treacherous journey through the wretched old studio. There was a brief sort of prickling sensation in whatever he had left for eyes, like an itch but not quite - was that Bendy trying to get a look? He  _ had _ sort of offered, hadn’t he?

_ W͜h͡o̧a͢h͏,̸ ̕t͝h͡at̸ ̴th̢i͡ng looks g͢ręat! I̛t look͘s̡ ̕i͢n̢t̢a͡ct͘, ̷s̸o ͠ma͞ybe?̨ _

Sammy certainly didn’t need any further encouragement, hurrying over to one of the arms to eagerly clamber inside. It hadn’t been entirely in position, but a little shoving had sorted that out. “I wonder if I need to push a button, or if it’ll be automatic like the games..?” He mused, moments before the entire ride began to judder as if in agitation.


	19. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH?!

_ “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH?!” _

**_A̶̧͎͢A͈̫͔͉͇̰͜ͅA̶̹̲̞͞A̸̻͔A̭̹̟̲͓̗͜͝A͇͍̮͈̥͇̖A͜҉̟̻̼̣̟͢A͏̵̩͇͢Ą̰̮̙̗̮͕͇̮͡A̷͖͕̣͙̙͉͚͈̕A͏͇̘͚̼̕A̴̞̱̫͢A͉̥̭̜͢A̱͕̕A̰̥̭͎̬̪͕̗̜͢A̷̛̟̮͉̙̘͝A͇͍̮͈̥͇̖Ą̶̯͍͚͓̻̱̺Ạ̛̭̯̞͡A̢̢͖̘̥̟A̡̹̦͜A̳̖̣͟A̵͈͍̤͢A̻̟̝͞A̠H͏̰̰̤̦͖H̶͍̦̕̕H̻̤̖͈̹͘Ḥ̯̼̪̜̗͟͠H̶̭?̰̼̹̬̻̖̣͓͞͝!̗̫͎͖̼͈͢_ **

Hurtling - the ride was  _ alive _ \- what was going on?! Sammy and the demon in his head yelled in shared confused terror as the world lurched.  _ Wall! _

Pain blossomed throughout Sammy’s body as he slammed into the wall with a wet squelchy slapping noise, and he was just about aware of sliding down it before darkness dragged him under.

**_H̨̭͔̰̺̮͙̘͓̕o̗͙̖̞͇̰̫͉͈l͙͉̗͈͟d̦̙̭̤̯͉̲̟͟͞ ̴̮̱̘͕ơ̮͓̦͚̟n̵̝͍̳͎̙!̨̫̜̮͙̫̙ ̵̗̜͍͔̝͘͠ͅF͎̘̯̲͕͘o̴͇̟͈l̨͎̥l̷̲̪̭̭̥̹͖̣͜o̤̘̭̣͈̗ẉ͚̥̙̳̖̖̙ͅ ̡̠̣͜m̤y͏̘͓̩̜͉̲̪̘ ̠̲̮̬̮̟̹͟͢v͈̙̞̲̘͎̖̠̕o͇͎͎̫͔ͅi̷̛̩̜̕c̬̬̭̭̩̰̗̰̹̕ẹ͕͕̘̟̜̖̯!̛̻̘̻̞̲͍̝̝ͅ ̗̖͝ͅͅD̢͚̞̘̪͓o̴̖̘̙̳̠̮ͅṇ̡̲̮̯̠̞̣͖'̶͕̬̤̺̱̝͖͞t̝͓͈̯̦̞̬ ̡̯̞̰f̸̼̦̩̗̲̪̻̳a̰̲͖͔̥̲̹l̬͙̣͎̜͓̰͔͘ḷ̛̞̳̝̰̟ͅ ̡͇̲͡ạ̣̘̫͝ͅs̰͈͕̩̭̰ͅl͖̮͜ͅe̖͖͎͉e̛̗̞̺̞͡p̵̴̮̤͎̝̬͝!̷̞̳̜̰̝̩̣_ **

It was harder to focus, harder to make out the grating, jarring sound of Bendy’s agitated voice - but some quality of it cut through. A good thing that, considering how  _ noisy _ things had become. He’d been tipped straight into a whirling darkness that  _ screamed _ at him from all sides, tossing him about. How was he supposed to follow anything? What had happened? What was happening now? Falling  _ asleep _ was the least of his worries right now!

**_K̞̻̗͉̞̖̺̟ȩ̶̜̖̭̭̹ȩ̯͖͉p̨̘͉̻̱̮̳̞͟ ̰̙̖̣̳͈̟̫th̸̪i̱̟̤̟̮̠̹nķ͉͍̫̦̗̦i̵͚͎̫̻̪ng!̝̝ ̯͢͝I͉͈̜͡ģ̰͙n̤̹̱̩̟̥o̢̗͈͓͝r̷̨̻̪͓͇̹͕͖̣e̵̻̫ ̨̧̭͎̩̠t̲̞̦̟͍̻̕͝h͢͞͏͇̫̤̫͔̭̳e͟͏͙̘̳̤͖̪̟͞ͅ ̴̛̙s̸̴̗̻̬t̡̛̜̳̻͍͓͝u͇̹͞͝f̵̞̦͡f̵̨͔͚ ҉̧͉͙̤͓͇͔͇͈͟i̛̥͕̲̜͔̘͘͞n̺͍̦ ̨͙̘͓t̶̥͖h̼̯͉̣̞̱̞̬͘e̛͇̯̟̱̤͜ ͡҉̲̦̫̼b̶͎̪͚̖̕a̡̩̱c̤͇͠k̜̳̤̺̰g͚̭̦̝̫̪̦̯r̵͇͔̯͍̥͇͓̪͠o̴̴͉̭̭͈͔̯̻̠u̺̟͓̤͟ṋ̴̷̯͔̙d̷͎̼̣̤̙̩͢ͅ,̢̬̗͙̹͡ ̻̝̺̭͓j̡̡̻͎̦̫͉͈̮͈u̵͕͜ͅs̙͕̦͙̼͕t̥̘̥͔̕ͅ ̡̘̲͔͈̯f̜̞̕͜ơ̪̩̯̳̕͜c͓̪͉͉̥u̺̰̻̙͉͇̖͞ş̫̠̳͕̝̖͔̙͝!̷̜̲̹̭͜_ **

That was a lot easier said than done - it was hard to hear himself think above the racket - hard to hold a thought in his head as he was buffeted. It was like being a lone sock in a violent washing machine. Was he screaming too? Probably. It was hard to tell. What was he supposed to focus  _ on? _ Himself? Bendy? Both? Probably both. He had to remember both of those things - but would that help him get out? He wanted to get out!

**_I̷̼̫͙̗̮͟͡'͏̖͈̱̯͚m͏͓̙̜̻̞ t͏̱̙̕r̪͔̙̠͡͝ͅy̷͔̹͎̻̗i̛̪̭͎̣̪̻̣̲͟n̵̜̙̣͙͖̪̠g̯̦̲̠̹̼̳ͅ,͏͈̭͓͡ ̡̛͍̦S͢͢͏̙̻͓͖̱̬a̷̢̡͍̤̲͇̼̙͔m̷̡͙̙̫͈͉̰͎̥̱m̥̜͝y͇͉̪̩̟͙͡,͈̙͙͖͓͎̭̭͘ ͍̜͕͇b̗͕̲̘̳̜͝͝ͅu̧̺͜͠t͈ ̶̣̲͈͍͇̕͠y̲̟͙͇̲o͏̶̘̤̟̻͓̟̳̻ụ͞͞ ̞̲̜g̦͕̟͇͕̲̮̳o̶̡̪͈͇͔̲̝̬̗͟ţ̛̭ͅt̼͖̣̟̹͎a̝̼͡ ̨͕̱̰͍͡p̬̹̱͜͠͞u̴̬̼̮͉̱͢ͅl̢͕l̷̬͕̠̗͙̭̦ ̵̪̥̹̖̖̣̦͡t̜͇͝oo͚͙̱̬̳̘!͝ T͇h͙i̧̫s̶̳͕͎͕ ̺̼͇w̵̗̪̺̝̺a̤̱̥̬y͙̹̼͍͕!̵_ **

Which way was  _ this _ way? It was hard to tell - but he began to realise that he  _ could _ try to swim. It was leaden-limb work, muscles straining and currents continually tugging him beneath the surface - he wasn’t sure how long he could keep it up. The whole experience was so surreal, too - was this even real? How had he landed in this? No. No, he had to focus. He could worry about things not making sense later. He had to keep swimming towards Bendy’s voice.

**_Tḥ͙̯͉̤͝a͖̫ṱ̖͟'̢͚̞̦̘̞͙s̼̺͕͈͓ ͍͉͕̩̣̭̦i̷̹̞͍̬t̵̥̼!̴̲ ҉͓̩̻K̳̼̫e̜ę͇̬̙͕͓̠ͅp͓͍͈͕͈̥̘̕ g̭͍o͎̪͍͘i̢̗̯n͚̦͔̣̙̩g̯̙̜̲̖͈!͎̤͇̙̣ I̗̘̟͕̙͍̰'̛̮̬̮v̠̖͟e͏̲̖̦ ̡̲a̟̯͔̟l͉̰̦͍͚̯͈m̭͔͎o̹̤͕͔s̴̱̦t̯͔̙̖ ̠̥͖͓̰g̖o͚̗̲͈͉t̶ y̰͍̰̦͎ͅo̠ͅu̠̯̠!͓̳̦_ **

Hope dared trickle through him - was he really almost out? He was already so, so tired - it would be so easy to just stop and sink - but he couldn’t - he didn’t want to - he wanted to get out of there. Bendy’s voice was clearer above the cacophony now - he really  _ was _ getting closer, whatever  _ that _ meant in a whirlpool of liquid shadows and screams.

_ Light. _ Something was  _ glowing, _ softly golden and so  _ close _ \- what was it? It looked almost like a rope - but rippled and tenuous. Sammy flailed, grasping for it desperately. He almost couldn’t tell if he had it or not - but as he clung tightly to what he fervently hoped  _ was _ something, the currents tugging at his slowing legs seemed to have less power over him - he was being tugged  _ away _ from them.

_ K̖͉̪̱̥̲ḙ̤͍̖e̗̳̮̖̗̹̩p̕ ̧̙̺̪̘g̙̳̭̟̮̦ọ̸̻̻̫̲͍̠i͏̦͕n̘̹̱͔̜̘g͕̯͢!̡̞̠͈͙͙͖ ͎͙̗̦̹͘Y̜̫̗̘̩̦͔o̡͉̤̦u̠̱̭̲ͅ ̖͖̗͠c͈͓̠a̺͈̱̖͎ͅͅn̻͠'̭̰̤̣͓̼t ̞̲͔s͚t̫͙ͅo͔̗͍̼p̲̝͠ y̠̥̪̜͖e͚t̜͍!̮̦ _

Bendy’s voice hurt less now - but he could still hear it. His legs screamed protest, but he renewed his efforts, kicking harder again. If he had to keep swimming, then that was what he was going to do. No way was he going to give up with the end almost in sight!

Air met his newly wet skin - he stumbled, falling to his knees - something hefty whistled past just where his head had been moments before. Delirious with relief and confusion, Sammy pressed himself to the floor - the light was gone - everything was pitch black again, but the  _ screaming _ was gone.

What had just nearly taken his head off?! He could feel his limbs - he could feel solid ground - but something nearby was making a lot of mechanical noise. The ride! It was trying to kill him! Again? Had he died? No time to worry about that! A slam right next to him had Sammy scuttling to the left, scrabbling for any hint of an off switch or a hidey-hole.

_ Get ̨my̶ ͏e͞yȩs f̕ro͢m y͝our ̴gu͘i͢tar̛! _

What the absolute hell was Bendy talking about  _ now? _

_ M̧y ͘e̴y̶e̷s̕!͝ ͞T͢h̛e ̸f͢a͟c͠e͜! ̨Įt w̧as ̛st̵uc͜k t͘o your͝ g̸uita͘r͝!͏ _

An impact to his side threw Sammy to the right, a whine of pain escaping him as he tried to get back out of range - if such a thing as out of range existed. Why was Bendy talking about the cutout head thingie  _ now? _ It didn’t make any  _ sense _ to him - but Bendy  _ had _ just pulled him out of a hellish whatever-that-was… “Where is it?!” He certainly couldn’t see it.

_ T̸w̶o ͟more̢ ̶st͡e͏p̵s r͞igh͢t̶!͢ _

Hurriedly, he staggered that way, feeling about on the ground as something crashed further away. There! His guitar, mercifully whole! His axe wasn’t there, probably thrown somewhere else, but the shrunken cutout head  _ was _ still stuck there! Hurriedly, he pulled it off, thick ink still clinging to one side of it. Now what?

_ P͡ull͞ t̶h̸e̢ ̶i̕n̡k̷ i̷n̢t̨o͠ a l̸oop̧! P̡u̷t͢ the ̢ęyes̵ on yo̧u̢r͜ fa̡ce! _

Not bothering to question it this time - that could take up valuable seconds that  _ didn’t _ involve being pounded into a paste by a homicidal carnival ride - Sammy tugged at the thick ink. It seemed to solidify as he pulled part of it free from the middle, forming a strap of sorts. A mask! Hurriedly, he pulled it on, a faint idea of what Bendy had in mind occurring to him.

Everything sprang into immediate focus - far sharper than he’d been able to see for quite some time. He’d have been pleased, but there was an arm coming  _ right for him. _ Yelping, he dove aside, rolling on the ground with his guitar. At least  _ now _ maybe he’d stand a chance.


	20. In which Sammy is the livid voice of reason

Thoroughly fed up with the situation he found himself in, and running on whatever equivalent to adrenaline he even still had at this point, Sammy hauled himself up and made a break for it. Not for the way he’d come in - oh, no, he could  _ see _ that it was shut again, as if the place was  _ designed _ to be  _ as inconvenient as possible. _ Instead, he bolted straight for the one place that  _ wasn’t _ being subjected to rampant mechanical mayhem - the eye of the storm, as it were.

Leaping up - and narrowly avoiding falling right off again from the way it was juddering about - Sammy dug his fingers into whatever handholds he could get on the main part of the ride. The situation was still  _ bloody terrifying, _ but at least now he couldn’t be bludgeoned to death.

It was only now that he finally noticed the swollen, disembodied head in the centre, revealed by the opened flaps. Sammy was too frayed to wonder about the size or how it had gotten there - all that mattered was that he had someone  _ recognisable _ to properly vent his feelings on the situation to.

Taking a risk, he let go with one had and swung as hard a punch as he could manage without falling off straight into Bertrum’s nose. It crunched satisfactorily, astonished and pained bulbous eyes staring his way. “QUIT YOUR BULLSHIT, BERTRUM!” Sammy yelled, bare inches from the gigantic face.

The ride ground to a metal-screeching halt, nearly dislodging Sammy in the process. Its cranial occupant stared incredulously at the livid intruder who’d dared disturb him, nose dripping ink like blood. “Is that Sammy Lawrence I hear?”  _ Finally _ \- someone who could recognise him! Not only that, but if he could think, maybe he could be reasoned with.

_ “Yes _ it’s me, you fairground fucktree! Quit  _ killing _ me!” There was a ripple of bewilderment from Bendy in the back of his mind, but Sammy was a little too preoccupied to ask what was confusing him. After all, there  _ was _ a chance his quite justified outburst might make things worse rather than better.

Thankfully, no renewed onslaught made itself known, and a new expression spread across Bertrum’s face - something that might  _ possibly _ be construed as awkwardness mingling with recognition and something else. “It  _ is _ you! I thought I recognised your decibels!” ...Well, he  _ had _ done a fair bit of yelling, near the studio’s apparent end. It wasn’t a stretch to consider that Bertrum might have overheard some of it. If he was pleased enough to meet someone recognisable that he was overlooking the insults and broken nose, though, why had he been trying so hard to smash him into paste?

There was a long, awkward silence after he asked this, the potato-like head actually seeming embarrassed. “Ah… I  _ may _ have assumed you to be Mr. Drew…” He admitted slowly, as if reluctant to confess his error. “You  _ did _ wake me quite abruptly, as I’m sure he would have done.” These words had a definite tone of reproach to them, but Sammy was having none of it.

“You’re a  _ carnival ride _ \- how was I supposed to know you were in there?!” He demanded, the issue of mistaken identity shelved for now. He could understand wanting to mulch the old boss, and it wasn’t as though many people were exactly recognisable any more.

As he spoke, Sammy gradually clambered down, as the danger seemed to have passed. His fingers had been getting somewhat sore from his grip, and it was a relief to be able to release that and adjust his guitar strap again. “You want to crush Joey to a pulp - okay, understandable, but there’s far more of everyone else than there is of him, and you  _ look _ like a fun distraction from the hell all around us!”

Bertrum was swift to point out that it wasn’t as though he could actually tell who he was dealing with, things being as they were. Sammy made to pinch what would have been the bridge of his nose, but his fingers met board instead. Ah, right - the mask. “Well, then, let’s work out a system, shall we?” He suggested, tone still somewhat waspish. “I can pass it along to everyone I meet who doesn’t turn out to be an asshole, then.”

There was another bubble of confusion from Bendy, but the tone of it felt weary, as though the demon could use some rest. Feeling that Bendy was most definitely entitled to a nice snooze, he gently pushed that concept towards him while he tried to hash things out with Bertrum.


	21. Rambling in Song

If anyone but Joey was going to be the one to record a dramatic rant, it  _ would _ be Bertrum - not that Sammy was about to compare them out loud while the latter was still in earshot. He might not exactly have fond feelings about the guy right now, but he’d run out of immediate context for insults and didn’t fancy getting smashed again. At least that tape would be a fairly fitting trigger for Joey’s doom if he ever did wind up down here.

It was frankly a relief to pull the switch he’d actually come in for and finally leave Bertrum’s chamber of whirling death behind. He didn’t pull the next switch on the haunted house ride immediately, however. Instead, he unslung his instrument and slumped down to lean his back against the exterior of the ride.

He could still feel his pulse, but he had  _ died _ in there, hadn’t he? It was a lot to take in - and made it abundantly clear that, at least in this forsaken place, there were no warm fluffy clouds waiting. Drawing his knees up close, he held onto them and leaned his head back.

How was he supposed to  _ handle _ this sort of thing? What  _ was _ he now? Was there really still any hope..? He wasn’t sure how well he’d be able to keep going without the hope that somehow, things were going to be okay in the end…

Well, if he couldn’t be sure how he’d cope without hope, he was just going to have to make sure he  _ did _ keep hoping, wasn’t he? He had to have faith that it was  _ possible _ to make a difference in this uncertain shithole. He’d come this far, hadn’t he? Not without Bendy’s help - he didn’t want to think about where he’d be without Bendy - but that was okay. Knowing he wasn’t adrift on his own could help him keep on hoping - he just had to really  _ believe _ they could get out of this.

Resolved on the matter, though he was still definitely rattled, Sammy decided that perhaps some music would help him to ease his frayed nerves. Shifting a bit, he moved to prepare his… banjo? Hadn’t he thought- Why had he thought it was a guitar? That was… concerning. Wait - hadn’t it been  _ Bendy _ who’d first called it that? Surely the demon could be excused for not having his stringed instruments straight…

Sammy should still have picked up on this, he felt, but he’d only just come back to life at the time - maybe it was just a temporary confusion induced by the stress of it all? Shoving the thought to the back of his mind, Sammy began to strum his  _ banjo. _

It  _ was _ somewhat soothing, having music to fill the air - a familiar sort of distraction. Strumming aimlessly, he reflected that it felt as though something was missing… What could it be? Ahhh… A song… Lyrics had generally been Jack’s thing - whatever had happened to him by now - but this was hardly for commercial purposes. Maybe it could even help him with sorting through what he was feeling. It didn’t have to be more than rambling, anyway.

“Yea though I fell through a whirlpool of hell,  
Though I froze at her voice and fell under a spell -  
You pulled me out…  
I don’t know why you chose me,  
Or how you do these things,  
But if I have you with me,  
I can see what the future brings.  
You shut away the screams for me,  
Gave me your eyes that I may see -  
How lucky I am to know you,  
Bendy…”

It was barely structured, more stream of consciousness than anything, but it did seem to kind of help. At least, it made him feel a bit better.

Glowing golden eyes from the top of the Bendy Land sign caught his drifting gaze, and his fingers stilled on the strings. Was that one of the lost up there? How long had they been there? Had he somehow missed them earlier, or had they only just arrived?  _ Why _ were they up there?

Well, whatever their reasons, they were clearly listening - maybe he ought play some more, and see if he could get his rather disorganised musical ramblings into some semblance of order? Hell, maybe he could work a warning about Bertrum and the new ‘don’t get pancaked’ system - that’d be useful. Maybe it’d even be easier to remember if he it it into the format of a song?

Having goals to focus on helped, and Sammy began to strum again, starting to pick out a tune as he ventured into song once more. Other sets of curious glowing eyes peeked out at him from behind forgotten attractions - the lost were listening.


	22. A Listener's Interlude

The lost weren’t the only ones who were listening. Unbeknownst to Sammy, who was rather distracted in his serenading of the gathering forlorn ones around him, there was another member of his audience too.

It was merely by chance that he was focused there at the moment, rather than more spread out as he usually was, but Norman was glad of it. The music, strange as it was, provided something new and soothing to pay heed to. The voice raised in song was familiar as well - who  _ was _ that?

He was sure he knew that voice - and perhaps if he listened for long enough, he’d remember. He  _ did _ pride himself on having his finger on the pulse of the studio, even after everything that’d happened to it and everyone it remorselessly held in its grasp.

Whoever it was, he seemed very impressed with Bendy, as though he’d interacted with him personally. How could that be? Nowhere on the numerous floors was there a roaming Bendy, as far as he’d heard… Then again, it was always possible that he was somewhere the screams in the ink were too concentrated to get much sense out of. Though he didn’t like to admit it, that  _ was _ a bit of a blindspot.

He was distracted from his musing by another point of new information -  _ her _ voice could only refer to two people he was aware of, and one of them presented a clear danger. The singing seemed to imply she’d picked up a new trick he’d have to be careful of… It simply wouldn’t do to be ensnared by the angel’s voice - perhaps if he screeched if he thought she was involved? Couldn’t enspell him if he couldn’t hear her.

What was that about Bertrum? Well, that explained a fair few things, actually.if he’d been able to, he’d have snorted. Instead, an amused whirring sound escaped and he shook his head. Just when he thought he’d plumbed the depths of the studio’s weirdness, he discovered something more. At least he knew, now.

Another thought struck him, listening to the singer on the other side of the door - what would this person make of  _ him? _ He was hardly the least… monstrous of the studio’s inhabitants. What if this wasn’t the beginning of what could be an interesting acquaintance, with someone else who was actually  _ coherent, _ but a lead in to a fight if this singer headed his way?

Norman could fight - of course he could, he was strong even now, with this abominably heavy contraption for a head weighing him down. He didn’t  _ want _ to fight, however. He wanted to have someone to talk to besides the searchers, who were infrequent company, and not generally coherent. How could he engineer things such that an encounter wouldn’t result in them killing one another?

Sloshing in a veritable lake of ink didn’t exactly make for ideal tea party conditions, he mused with wry amusement as he peered around, playing his light across things as he searched for anything that could conceivably convey non-hostile intentions. What was he supposed to do, when the majority of what he had with him were trains? They weren’t even train  _ sets, _ but actual  _ trains. _

A clunk reverberated through his projector as he realised something, and he paused, wondering how it had taken him this long. Of  _ course _ that voice was familiar - that was  _ Sammy! _ He’d heard him singing or humming uncountable times before things had collapsed - how had he not realised?

It was certainly good to know that he’d come awake - and Norman was fairly sure it was an awakening rather than just wandering somewhere new, as he was positive he’d have heard of him roaming around before now unless it  _ had _ been very recent that he’d started to do so. He even sounded like he was still himself, if a bit Bendy-focused. Then again, if a literal Bendy  _ had _ helped him, that would make sense.

Maybe he could offer him something to eat? ...Did he  _ have _ anything other than those damn hearts around? He doubted offering  _ those _ was going to make him feel welcome.. Should he hide the hearts? Hurriedly, he stuffed the disturbingly fleshy lumps into a crate and shut the lid - no sense leaving those lying around in plain sight if he was expecting a probable guest.

Maybe food was out anyway - it would seem suspicious if he didn’t eat with a guest if he did offer food, but he didn’t have a  _ mouth. _ Eating was… disconcerting to watch, he was sure, when it involved pressing things directly into himself through his throat and just… letting the ink envelop it. He didn’t need to seem  _ more _ other than he already was.

Finally, he managed to find some soup on the upper platform area, where the floor was considerably drier. He ought have checked there first, really, but he hadn’t quite been thinking straight. Well, it was a moot point now, wasn’t it? Unless he just… left it there for Sammy to find? No strings of social nicety attached to that…  
  
A sigh crackling heavily out from his speaker, he rubbed the back of his neck. Oh. Oh that was something else he really ought to work on. He hadn’t used his voice to actually  _ speak _ for quite some time - he needed to ensure it was in proper working order before he tried to greet Sammy, so he didn’t accidentally just blast him with static or something. With this goal in mind, he found a crate to sit on and began to fiddle.


	23. An Old Friend

Finally, Sammy felt ready to face more of whatever the studio might hurl at him next. Dragging himself back up onto his feet, he glanced around at the gathered lost, trying to think of a clear and concise way to tell them all he was moving on. “Until next time, then, folks.” He settled, finding it corny the moment he voiced it. A few of them waved at him, which was somehow a little heartwarming, and the throng began to disperse.

Sammy waved back as he pulled the lever, watching them go, before deliberately taking a slow breath and wandering along the line had begun to pulse with light. Maintenance, huh? Should be interesting… Stepping in, he wondered with vague concern who had felt the need to daub ‘choo choo’ onto the wall. Okay, so he could see a ‘Train Trouble’ poster, but really?

He shook his head, chuckling a little. He remembered working on the soundtrack for that one - he distinctly recalled having insisted on recording an actual train whistle for part of it. He spent a moment just holding onto the memory, grateful that it was still clear, before beginning to explore.

“Oh… I didn’t think we had any _life size_ parts of the Buddy Boris Railway in here…” Had they made those trains in here, he wondered with incredulity, unsure how anyone had expected to be able to get them _out._ Then again, maybe the ink had somehow enlarged a pair of model trains… At this point, he mused as he drew back from the balcony’s edge, he honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

Was that a seaside thingie over there, with the odd pile of cans in front of it? It looked like one of those amusingly silly things for sticking one’s face through to look like some caricature - in this case, a stereotypical beach-goer. There was even a camera! What was the point of this being here? It was funny, though, and he wondered whether it might mean there could be photos of people before all the ink stashed away somewhere… That would be something, maybe even helpful for the lost. He wasn’t sure where he’d look for those, however. The cans here would be worth remembering, at least.

Pressing on, he began to head down the stairs towards the mass of ink covering the floor around the trains, uncomfortably reminded of the sea of ink that had tossed him around in death. This ink didn’t seem anywhere near as turbulent, thankfully, which was a relief. As he trudged in search of a switch, though, he began to realise that his weren’t the only footsteps sloshing the ink. He wasn’t alone…

Caution prickling along his spine, he glanced around in search of the source of the noise. A flickering light caught his gaze, seemingly in motion. What? Maybe whoever that was had a lantern or something? That was a hopeful sign, right? If someone had a lantern with them, that seemed to imply the forethought to _bring_ a lantern, he thought.

The light turned the corner, its bearer coming into full view, and Sammy stared in horror. That _wasn’t_ a lantern. That was a _projector_ affixed where someone’s _head_ should have been. Someone quite tall, too… His mouth dry, he thought he knew who this was - but would he even be _himself_ with a projector for a head? Not even registering that the light beaming directly at him wasn’t dazzling him, Sammy watched anxiously as the warped figure drew ponderously nearer. Ought he flee? Bendy still seemed to be asleep - no advice would be forthcoming for the time being…. He decided to take a risk, waving a hand. “Norman..? Is that… you?”

The figure paused, straightening up, and there was some kind of whirring sound as the light brightened. Did that mean something?  _“Yes, it’s me!”_ Norman’s voice had a tinny, artificial quality, emerging from what could only be a speaker on his chest as he drew closer at a distinctly faster pace. He sounded delighted to be recognised, which was completely understandable, and much much more positive than the mindlessness Sammy had feared he’d possess. The tension in Sammy’s frame eased visibly at this friendly greeting, his relief profound.  _“How did you recognise me, Sammy? You…_ **_are_ ** _Sammy, right? You_ **_sound_ ** _like Sammy…”_

Norman was within a few feet of him now, something that would have been somewhat imposing if his reactions hadn’t been as surreally endearing as they were. “What other tall guy would’ve ended up with a projector of all things for a head?” Sammy quipped, using wryness to cover for his earlier worries. “Yeah, I’m Sammy. I’ve got to say, it’s a relief to find you as yourself… This whole place is completely fucked up.”

Norman nodded his fervent agreement with _that_ particular sentiment, clearly having as low an opinion of the situation as Sammy.  _“Likewise… As long as it’s been since there was any sign of you, I thought you might be lost, or otherwise not_ **_you_ ** _any more…”_ A disquieting thought, and not one he was especially keen on pursuing - but what had that been about how long he’d been out of commission? An uncomfortable feeling squirming in his gut, he had to ask.

Fidgeting a little with his banjo strap, he peered up at Norman. “How… How long has it been since this happened..?” How long had he been unaware, changing and losing both time and humanity. A part of him was afraid of what the answer might be, but he had to ask anyway - somehow, he just couldn’t _not_ ask.

There was a slightly long pause, Norman shifting a little awkwardly where he stood.  _“It’s hard to be sure of the passage of time down here… but I’m fairly sure it’s been years now.”_ Years… He must have reacted somehow without realising - Norman’s large hand had come to rest warmly on his shoulder, in what was probably an attempt to reassure him.

“That’s… a lot to take in…” He managed, somewhat shaken once more. How many years could it have been? Was anyone still looking for him? Was anyone he’d known outside the studio even alive? Was anything of his old life _left?_ A choked sound escaped him, and he didn’t resist as Norman gently drew him into a close hug.

_“I know, Sammy… I’m sorry…”_


	24. Catching Up

It was quite a while before Sammy was quite ready for more conversation, but Norman was as patient as he’d always been. It was nice, not having any pressure to push into pretending to be unaffected - and very much comforting to actually receive a hug. It was, perhaps, something he’d been in dire need of for this entire time.

When he finally began to draw back, a bit more composed, he resolve to see whether the lost needed any hugs. He wasn’t sure if they’d be receptive, but he thought it might well be good for them. “Thank you…” He murmured, peering back up into Norman’s light. There was no judgement in that glow - he could tell that Norman understood, and that helped.

_“No problem.”_ Norman rumbled back, a whirr and a brightening of his light as he tilted his head seeming to form an equivalent of a warm smile. At least, that was what Sammy chose to interpret it as. A little awkward as he shifted in place, glad at least that he’d manage to avoid bumping Norman with his axe during the hug, he tried to figure out what he could say next.

“So, uh… How’ve you been? Besides the obvious, I mean…” He attempted, wondering what it was Norman had been doing with himself for all this time. Had he just been wandering around in the murky depths for the years they’d been trapped? Norman paused, before suggesting that they find somewhere to sit down rather than just standing around. As he thought about this, Sammy nodded, agreeing that it sounded like a good idea - but where to sit? The answer to this question turned out, he discovered, to involve the _trains._

For having such a bulky head, Norman was surprisingly nimble, scaling one to sit atop it with an air of being quite pleased with himself. This actually drew a shaky laugh from Sammy, which brightened Norman’s light a tad further. “Hang on, let me put my axe down and I’ll be right up.” He called, peering up at him. There was no need of it with Norman, after all - it could just rest on the driver’s seat until he picked it back up again.

Actually clambering up took a couple of tries, with how slippy the floor lake had made his feet, but Norman was there to give him a hand up. It was a little surreal to be sat on top of a train, but it was a _fun_ kind of surreal, unlike so much else that surrounded them nowadays. It certainly helped to lighten the mood, though Sammy was quite sure the thoughts preying on him would be back for blood later - not that it was likely he even still _had_ blood at this point.

Once Sammy was settled into a comfortable cross-legged position, Norman began to fill him in about what he’d been up to. As this had involved deliberately and repeatedly becoming disembodied to dive into the inky voices while his body ran on autopilot, Sammy was understandably quite startled. _“What?!_ Norman, no offence, but what the _hell?!”_ He exclaimed, stunned that anyone would willingly subject themselves to such a thing. “Doesn’t it hurt? What if you couldn’t get back?”

These were quite understandable questions, but Norman hastened to assure Sammy that he’d never had any trouble with getting back to himself, and that it was worth it to have access to all the information the puddles had to offer.  _“It also helped me to learn how to communicate with the searchers.”_ He pointed out, waving a hand vaguely.  _“When they know I’m in, the coherent ones like to drop by for some company.”_ Searchers? What were they?

It wasn’t until Norman began to describe them that Sammy realised what he was talking about. “Like my band! You can get through to them? I only knew that music could settle them down!” At last, some _hopeful_ news. If Norman could teach him how to engage with the searchers, there might well be some hope for his old band, and he _had_ to hang onto _that_ thought. Any hope was precious now, and he felt responsible for those who’d once worked under him.

Norman produced another of those whirr-brighten smiles, nodding slowly.  _“I can help you with that.”_ He responded, seeming pleased to be able to offer something useful.  _“What about you, though? How did you wind up down here, masked and singing about Bendy?”_ A valid line of inquiry, Sammy had to admit, though he hadn’t realised that Norman had heard him singing.

He paused, uncertain. How was he supposed to explain hearing the voice of the dancing demon in his head? Sure, everything in the studio was warped in ways fit to make Wonderland weep, but hearing voices was rarely a good sign, even if the person one was admitting it to had an object for a head. “It’s, uh… a long and pretty unbelievable story…” He warned, kind of concerned that Norman would think he was quite thoroughly off his rocker.

_“We’ve got the time.”_ Norman hummed, inclining his head slightly.  _“Besides, pretty well all around us beggars belief.”_ Sammy _could_ just have said that he didn’t want to talk about it, he was fairly sure that Norman would respect that - but he _wanted_ to be able to talk through things with someone else. If nothing else, it would at least get things off his chest - and if Norman _believed_ him, he’d actually have someone besides Bendy to confide in and draw support from.  
  
Yes, by now he definitely trusted the demon, but it would be so reassuring to speak with someone else who _wasn’t_ in his head, and wasn’t as woefully forlorn as the lost. Bertrum wasn’t even an option, and the angel didn’t bear thinking of. Drawing a steadying breath, more from habit than anything, he nodded. “Alright, but I warned you.”


	25. Of Embodiments

It took a fair bit of time to tell his tale, even without the moments at which he had to pause to allow himself the time to take a break. It helped a lot that Norman listened with patience, not stopping him to question if such-and-such a thing could _really_ have happened, nor rushing him when he needed a moment. Things like raiding a killer’s lair, having to kill the Butchers and, of course, being smashed into the screams were still quite hard to put into words - but Norman’s hand on his shoulder was steadying.

_“You’ve really had a time of it, haven’t you?”_ Norman sympathised once he was done, tone rueful and marked by some surprise.  _“I must admit, I hadn’t heard about a demon roaming around, whether out here or in people’s heads… but those bursts of dissonance sound familiar.”_ It wasn’t totally unbelievable? That was hopeful - if perhaps worrying, considering that the grating dissonance usually only bled into Bendy’s voice when he was in some way agitated.

“Familiar in what way?” He asked, seeking whatever outside confirmation he could get that his mental state really hadn’t gone down the toilet, at least as far as hearing voices was concerned. It could be all too easy to convince himself of things - and while _he_ felt he had enough proof right now, it would help quite a bit if someone else agreed with him.

Norman shifted a little where he sat, probably just for better position, and steepled his fingers as he peered at Sammy.  _“A while ago, maybe a year or two, there was a very loud burst of that through the ink.”_ He responded in measured tones, head slightly tilted.  _“The entire studio felt it - myself included. It was… painful, to say the least. Searchers all across the studio puddled, that much I know for fact.”_

That was… a considerable volume and intensity, from the sound of things… Sammy whistled softly, wondering what the _hell_ had been going on with Bendy. That, however, was when a tickle of memory stirred in his mind - he’d asked about his freedom from the screaming before, and part of the demon’s answer seemed relevant now.

“He _did_ tell me that he figured connecting directly to me would make it easier to talk to me without the screaming getting in the way… Maybe he didn’t just mean the screaming in the ink…” He mused, rubbing his chin. “I wonder what he was trying to say, when he sent that wave of noise through everyone…”

Norman shrugged, uncertain-seeming. From what Norman had said, it hadn’t exactly been at all intelligible, so he couldn’t really fault him for not having any ideas.  _“Search me. I will say this, mind - do you know if he’s got a body, or if he’s carried in the ink himself?”_ That was a distinctly unexpected question - and one he felt he really should have been asking before. Bendy _had_ told him that things hadn’t gone to plan, after all…

“I don’t know… but I can ask him next time he wakes. Is it likely that he could be trapped in that hellish whirlpool?” The thought sent unpleasant shivers through him - just moments in there was torment enough… Bendy didn’t deserve that. If he had no body, would there even be a way to pull him out? If necessary, maybe that animatronic he’d liked so much..

_“Well, it would explain him investing so much time in you, vicariously experiencing things through you…”_ Norman postulated, crackling slightly.  _“He would hardly be the first to try. Charley, Barley and Edgar make attempts at that with their bodies, but there are just too many of those to keep track of, and several other souls snatch at them as well.”_ He didn’t say whether he knew who those souls were, but Sammy didn’t ask, listening more closely than before.

_“It’s a big part of why the Butchers roaming around are so feral - with so many tugs on them to do so many different things, a lot of the time their heads are so filled with chaos they are reduced to this.”_ He sighed, rubbing a part of his projector.  _“If enough of the souls get organised enough, they can do things like set up that fire you mentioned, but it’s far from consistent.”_

While a lot of that had been a bit of a tangent, it was one Sammy was grateful for - was this Norman’s way of trying to reassure him that he wasn’t a murderer? If so, that was thoughtful of him… Wait, did this mean the _actual_ Butcher Gang were trapped in the ink as well? Poor sods…

“I don’t… _fully_ understand, but I really needed to hear that…” He murmured, tension easing from his shoulders. Norman assured him quietly that it wasn’t a problem, patting his shoulder gently. “Why don’t they just send each body to a specific place for each soul to just… claim? If it even works that way, I mean…” Sammy asked, bemused. That would seem like the logical sort of approach to him, after all.

_“I think agony is a big part of that, and the bodies don’t stay still long if left without direction.”_ Ah, yes, pain. Sammy nodded his understanding - that _would_ put a crimp in any attempts to get organised, wouldn’t it? Quite unnerving that those things really could function like the living dead and lurch without a mind’s direction, too...

“So… What does it mean for Bendy if he doesn’t have a body?” Sammy asked, after a moment or so spent considering this. Perhaps Norman might know of some way that he could be helped? If there _was_ a way, surely it was worth exploring? Norman didn’t answer at first, just sort of… staring for a while, which was unnerving. When Sammy began to shift uncomfortably, though, he spoke up.

_“Well, if he needs a body, and you match him closely enough, he_ **_could_ ** _conceivably try to take your place…”_ He responded slowly, not quite making eye contact - or what passed for eye contact, where no literal eyes were present. A chill crawled into Sammy’s gut, and he became quite conscious of the mask flat against what remained of his face. Could there really be a possibility that all Bendy wanted from him was his body?

“He’s… he’s not _like_ that…” Sammy tried, shaking his head. “He’d have had the chance to do that when I was still dazed from _Bertrum’s wild ride…_ or even while I was trapped in the screams… He’s still the one who pulled me out of there…” It was a good point, he hoped. Bendy saving him _had_ to mean that he was more than a potential inksuit for the demon’s mind, right? Right.

_“I wouldn’t know what he’s like now, but I hope you’re right.”_ Norman sighed, after a moment or three.  _“Just don’t go swapping those overalls for a bowtie, alright? Anyone could get tempted if they got desperate enough, even him.”_ Though Sammy was determined to cling to the thought that Bendy wouldn’t harm him, he nodded, wishing to reassure his friend. Besides, no need to tempt fate.

“No bowties, I promise.” A relieved whirr-clack escaped Norman, but Sammy didn’t mind that Norman was doubting his demonic guide this way. Norman hadn’t gotten to know Bendy - and besides, it was nice to feel there was someone looking out for him like this.


	26. Descend

“What if he _does_ have a body?” Sammy asked, realising after a little while that this was a possibility they hadn’t yet considered. It did seem to raise questions - as Norman voiced when wondering aloud whether it made sense for someone with a body to be speaking to Sammy through ink alone. Why didn’t he just approach in person?

_“Perhaps he might be doing the same thing I’ve been doing…”_ Norman mused, after running through a few other speculations.  _“If he’s nowhere I can hear past the screams, it could be that either he’s somewhere too dry of ink for me to get any whisper of him since the shriek, or he’s somewhere so submerged in it that I can’t hear anything past all the screams.”_ Two polar opposites, from the sound of things… and knowing sod’s law, they weren’t about to discover that Bendy was somewhere dry and cosy, were they?

It was at this point that a familiar sensation brushed against his mind, a querying feeling to it.

_S̵a̶mm͏y͘?͡ ͡W̕h͏a̸t did I ̴mi̧s̴s?_

The demon sounded groggy, but somewhat better rested than he had in Bertrum’s aftermath. Even though some of the speculations about his intentions had been of a rather uneasy sort, Sammy brightened a tad, pushing a scattered impression of what was going on in Bendy’s direction, wanting to keep him in the loop.

Norman watched the shift in his posture speculatively, uncertain.  _“Is it Bendy?”_ He asked, sitting up straighter. Nodding, Sammy gave him a thumbs up, both to confirm and to try to reassure his friend that he’d remember to ask about a body.

_A ͜b̵o͘dy?̧ W̶ha̴t̸'͡s ţh͜i̸s ̷ab͢o̶ut͡ ͝a͞ b̢od̵y?̷_

From Bendy’s echoing, he sounded as though not quite fully caught up yet. Hoping that it wouldn’t seem like too personal a question, Sammy ventured the query, fidgeting a little bit. There were a few moments of silence while the demon processed what he was being asked, Norman watching Sammy carefully, but he wasn’t silent for long.

_I̴ do ̷hav͏e͘ a b̨o̡d̢y,͟ y̸e͏a̷h̷,̢ n͜ot͜ t͝h̷a̴t̶ it's͢ ḑơin' me͟ mųch̕ ͝gǫơd a͘t͞ ̸t͞he m̢om͡ent. I'̷m͞ ̸in ͠a b̧it of a ̧bi̕nd r̷igh͠t ̸no͡w̴,̴ t'te̶ll ya̕ t̕h̵e t͠r͜u͢th.͜_

He _did_ have a body! That was a dual relief - Bendy wasn’t stuck swirling in the screams, and Norman didn’t have to keep fidgeting about it either. ‘A bit of a bind’, though, didn’t sound promising. “So… you _do_ have a body, but you’re stuck somewhere?” He asked - aloud for Norman’s benefit, which seemed to relax the Projectionist’s posture somewhat.

Bendy’s response was a nonverbal sense of distinctly disgruntled agreement, and what might have been a sigh. At least, from the lack of panic, Sammy figured he could be sure the angel wasn’t involved in any way. “Well… where _are_ you?” He added, a note of hope taking root in his voice.

The idea of being able to find Bendy would have held appeal anyway, after everything, but now he knew that the demon might need his help, the desire to find him was stronger still. He wanted to be able to help him as he had been helped - and maybe they’d have a better chance of escape if they could band together.

_I̛'͘m̕ ͜as̛ deep͞ as̴ t̨her̛e͜ i͏s̵ ̨t͢o go͞ - ̡I͞'m ̢t̶r̨a͘p̡pe͜d̢ ̡i͡ns͟i̢de ̢th͠e m͝a̴ch̡ine̷!_

There was a definite upwelling of hope to the demon’s voice now, perhaps catching onto Sammy’s intentions. He could even feel the echoes of it…

_Ar̢e ̢y̨o͢u̕ ţhi̛nk͢in̴' ͘what͘ I̸ ̧t͟hink͡ you̴'re͢ thi̵n̢k̛įn'?_

He hadn’t heard Bendy so _plaintive_ before, but the desperate longing in his tone was painfully clear now, and grasping Sammy’s heartstrings just as the hopelessness of the lost had. “How do I get to the machine?” He could think of only one that someone could have been trapped in - one whose dripping outcome was more than likely the root of all their misery. It was an intimidating thought, approaching something that might well have doomed them all. He certainly couldn’t blame Norman for jolting as if struck - but there was no way he was leaving Bendy trapped in there if he could help it.

A sudden, intense swell of alien emotion rocked him, ink dripping unbidden from behind hi mask before the overwhelming feelings were just as suddenly whisked away.  _“Are you alright?”_ Norman asked, leaning forward in concern. Sammy just nodded, wiping the drips collecting under his chin with his arm. He’d be alright - he could handle this. He did, however, still need an answer.

Bendy seemed to need a moment to handle his emotions, but there _was_ someone right in front of Sammy who had something of an information network, wasn’t there? “I’ll be alright - I think he’s just overwhelmed… Please tell me you know the way?” He asked, peering at Norman hopefully.

Norman was visibly hesitant, likely still worried, but he nodded slowly.  _“I know a shortcut… it won’t take us all the way, but it’ll bypass a couple of things I’d recommend avoiding. You don’t mind heights, do you? Or high speeds?”_ Hope and apprehension flared in roughly equal measure - avoiding whatever it was Norman wanted to give a miss sounded like a plus, but this was starting to sound an awful lot like leaping down a hole, and he did _not_ like the thought of that.

“So long as I’ll be intact at the end of it..?” He replied with caution, warily shifting. For some reason, his reaction seemed to reassure Norman, but he couldn’t think why. The Projectionist slid himself down from the train, beckoning for him to follow. What could he do but go along with it?

Collecting his axe, after he’d wiped his landing’s splash from his mask, Sammy hurried after Norman’s lumbering steps. Any poster with a face they passed, Norman booped, surprising Sammy with the subtle clicks this produced. There were buttons behind posters? Was that in any of the other areas too? He’d have to check sometime - but not now.

A hidden door the same texture as the wall ground creakily upwards, revealing a few steps leading up from the ink. Sammy hurried after Norman as he proceeded, peering in shock at what lay beyond. Protruding from a gap in the floor, utterly out of place, the top of a novelty slide beckoned. It would have done nicely in a theme park, he was sure, but the plummet from it was looking somewhat intimidating as it descended into the darkness.

Glancing between the steps and his friend, he was uncertain for a moment. What if he landed on his axe or banjo? When he voiced this worry, though, Norman seemed to have a plan.  _“You stick them in this crate of packing paper, and I’ll send them down when I’ve heard the splash.”_ He offered, to Sammy’s relief. _“Just get up onto the dock with them as soon as you can.”_  
  
Sammy could have asked why, but he didn’t want to lose his nerve, so he just nodded. Handing over his belongings, he clambered up and sat at the top of the slide with a jangling mix of excitement and jitters. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed off into the dark.


	27. To the Throne of Pain

_Fast!_ The air whipped past, buffeting him as he careened down. He’d wound up on his back, but he could still see brief glimpses of the rooms he hurtled through. He didn’t realise he was voicing anything until Bendy began to whoop along with him in his head. This was _fun!_ Dangerous, but fun! He’d needed this, he reflected - just as he ran out of slide.

Yelping, Sammy dropped with a wet smack into what seemed to be a literal river of ink. The splash echoed through a cavernous setting totally alien to what he remembered, like something out of a strange fable. His mask had gotten somewhat splashed, but enough had dripped free that he could see which direction he needed to paddle in to get out of the way of the crate now rapidly inbound.

It bobbed up from its own impact not long after, and he tugged it over to the bizarre dock to haul out. Not needing to breathe had its benefits - like not getting out of breath. Maybe swimming was something he could- shit was that a _hand?!_ That was a very clear _no_ to any swimming excursions, then!

Sat on the dock, Sammy tried to dry himself and clean his mask with the packing paper - which naturally led to having to pick bits of it off himself again. It helped to settle his nerves, though, and he was relieved to find his things intact. Norman appeared to have scrawled a message inside the lid, too, advising that he’d be down after a few minutes - to let the hand get distracted again. _Fair enough._ Sammy didn’t want to see his friend get dragged down by a giant cartoon arm.

He waited with vaguely dazed patience, slinging his banjo on again and peering in bewilderment at the apparent ramshackle town that lay down here, far beneath the studio. It was surreal and somehow both hopeless and hopeful. There was such a sense of resignation to every board of it - but it was still _houses._ People had persisted enough to _build_ rather than just languishing.

Familiar forms peeked out from doorways, and he waved with a brightening of his mood. More lost ones! They had homes! Approaching, and careful not to hold his axe in a threatening manner, Sammy greeted them warmly. He was pleasantly surprised to find that they’d heard of him, whatever passed for brows lifting behind his mask. It seemed as though some of the lost he’d met before had made their way down and spread word of him - that was actually kind of flattering…

A trickle of curiosity wafted from Bendy as the lost began to request the pancake song, and the song he’d been singing about Bendy before - would he mind? Sammy was a little embarrassed to have been caught out about singing about Bendy’s aid like some kind of starstruck medieval bard, but he pushed the memory Bendy’s way anyway. There was a soft, warm sense of something surprised, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was… It was a weight off his mind to realise that the demon didn’t find it silly, though, some tension he hadn’t realised was there lifting from his shoulders.

“Actually, I kind of have a mission right now… Do you mind if I sing to you when I get back? I need to get to the Ink Machine…” Murmurs rippled through the still-gathering crowd of lost, and Sammy shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like feeling as though he was disappointing them, but Bendy _needed_ him - and he could serenade and maybe offer to hug them later.

A loud splash heralded Norman’s arrival, as a quick glance to see him clambering up confirmed. The lost seemed to recognise him, some waving as they answered Sammy. Had he visited them before, or had they visited him? It was hard to be sure, but the fleeting thought wasn't important enough to raise as a question right then. “Go careful…” One of them breathed, tone light and delicate as moth wings, others nodding around them. “We’ll… be here…”

Relieved that he wasn’t letting them down, Sammy smiled behind his mask as he murmured assurances to them that he would indeed be back, and began to head in the direction they pointed him. Noticing Norman catching up, he peered at him. “Did you get all the ink out of your speaker okay?” He asked as they strode through the rickety-looking passage.

Whatever Norman would have replied was stolen away - the floorboards cracked loudly under their weight, giving way - words were replaced by shrieks of panicked surprise. Thankfully, they didn’t fall _too_ far, and ink cushioned their landing somewhat, but it took a moment or three to shake off the dazedness of the impact. There still seemed to be a few boards above, but it was clear that they’d have a harder time getting back.

_“Whoops…”_ Norman crackled, speaker operational but still in need of some attention. Sammy chuckled wryly, checking that there’d been no axe-related or fall damage as he hauled himself up and offered Norman a hand. They still seemed to be on track, though, according to Norman - they’d just… skipped a floor. Not exactly the kind of shortcut Sammy had been hoping for, but at this point, he’d take what he could get. It could, after all, have been quite a bit worse.

A maze that wore the guise of an office network greeted them, more twisty and labyrinthine than Sammy’s memories dimly suggested - and it didn’t make _sense_ for them to be this deep! Nobody had an underground office, much less beneath a town or a river of ink or a cavern! Had the studio been sinking underground? Spreading like a frenzy of roots?

From behind some of the doors, rasped snoring was audible - they did their best to tread softly, unsure whether waking whoever or whatever was snoring would be safe. This was rather difficult for Norman, slowing him considerably, but without knowing what was in there, it was worth it to minimise the creaks of the floorboards. No sense in provoking a fight they didn’t need.

If this had been an exploration mission rather than a rescue, Sammy might have taken more note of the contents of the rooms they passed. With Bendy’s frantic excitement buzzing in his skull, though, he didn’t even pause to sneer at Joey’s obnoxious office. That buzzing grew to a fever pitch as they strode out onto what seemed to be the shore of an inky lake - or perhaps moat, as a monolithic structure loomed like a mechanical temple in the midst of that dark pool.

Without hesitation, though it felt as though he’d swallowed a flock of agitated hummingbirds, Sammy waded into the ink with Norman at his side. As they trudged, he felt quite grateful to not be alone for this - it seemed less intimidating with a friend at his side. If Norman knew what he was thinking, or was thinking anything similar, he didn’t say - but he was _there_ , and that meant the world when Sammy knew just how dangerous this was, and how well his friend knew that.

Stepping up onto solid floor, Sammy peered around uneasily at the still, unfinished figures behind the glass. He didn’t dare shatter it to get them out, in case they were still forming and that would kill them. Norman placed a gentle hand on his shoulder - he hadn’t realised he was trembling until then, and he produced a soft grateful sound as he took a moment to regather himself.

The chamber beyond was quite round, adorned with screens and snippets of the show, but Sammy barely registered that. Had he had breath, it would have been stolen away as he beheld what lay in the heart of the chamber. There, arms kept stretched up to either side by chains anchored directly into his hands, a skeletally stretched-tall demon sat limply upon a greasy leather armchair. Only one impaled hand was even gloved, the other bare-clawed. His hips and ribs jutted out starvedly, ink clung close to his spine. Sammy’s heart lurched at the sight, a soft sympathetic noise in his throat. No _wonder_ Bendy’s hunger kept leaking out - how was he even still alive? That was some pretty impressive endurance, if nothing else, but he shouldn’t have _had_ to endure like this…

The demon’s mismatched horns twitched, his head lifting to face them - but just like those who’d come to free him at long last, Bendy had no visible eyes above his fixed grin. Ink drips dominated his features, some trickling down onto his limp bow. Was that normal for him? Was he… crying? Sammy didn’t ask - instead, he rushed closer, clambering up the heap of oversized gears the mockery of a throne rested upon in order to see if he could reach the chains.

“Okay - this is probably going to hurt, but I have an idea.” He stated rapidly, mind bubbling with the urgency of his desire to free his friend and guide. “Norman, if you give me a boost, I think I can break these with my axe - we can work on getting the rest out of his hands after.” He paused, glancing between the two of them, watching for their reactions.

Bendy nodded hurriedly, not seeming to have words to express himself at present. It was heartrendingly clear how desperate he was to be out, pain or no pain. Norman hesitated for a moment, perhaps considering the risks, before nodding as well and moving to hoist Sammy up by the waist and haul him onto his shoulders. Sammy needed a second to regain his balance, but then he was ready. Gripping onto part of the first chain to brace it, he swung his axe sharply towards it.


	28. At Last

The chain bit into his hand at the strike, in spite of the attempt to brace it - a stricken gurgle escaped, but Bendy held still while Sammy tried again. He had no words for the way his hope buoyed him up, but it made the lancing sting seem somehow distant. He’d withstood pain this long, too - he could handle a bit more in the name of freedom.

Each strike was far too loud for comfort, his aching horns ringing - but the metal gave way! He did his best to gather his arm close as it fell loose, teeth goopily parting and solidifying to allow him to lick his leaking hand. Chain still dangled from it, but what mattered was that it was _his_ again.

His view from Sammy’s mask teetered as his rescuers made a beeline for the other chain, but he didn’t mind the dizziness _at all._ Someone had _come_ for him! After all this time! They hadn’t even _said_ anything about how _wrong_ he looked, let alone run away! The ink from his face grew more runny, dripping further, and he barely registered the wording of Sammy’s nigh-constant babble of reassurance. The tone was getting through to him though, soothing him and assuring him that he _was_ cared for.

The second chain snapped at last, and Bendy drew his other arm near to lick his trembling hand clear of the leaking ink. _Free…_ He didn’t know how to handle it - and when arms wrapped around him so warm and close, he couldn’t hold it in. With a ragged wail of relief and profound gratitude, he leaned into this warm embrace wholeheartedly.

Trembling, he tried to wrap his own arms around the figure, but they were still too strained from long years suspended. His chest heaving, he became aware of a shaky keening sound rising from his own throat as another’s hand patted his shoulder. Dimly, he realised that someone was speaking to him, but he couldn’t grasp the words past the roar of his own emotions.

He stayed like this for quite a while, time seeming to hold no meaning. Gradually, though, he began to recover his wits somewhat. The heavy, gentle hand at his shoulder belonged to Sammy’s friend, while the arms holding him so close could only be Sammy’s own. He felt… a lot of things, more than he really knew names for, but one of the more poignant was feeling _wanted,_ feeling _valued._ He wasn’t sure when he’d last felt something like that.

Belatedly, he realised that at least some of his emotional outpouring had been spilling across his link to Sammy - which kind of explained why he was trembling as well. With a flicker of guilt, Bendy did his best to stem that flow, producing a sort of warbled crooning noise. "͝"͘͞T͠h̛a̶̡-͏a̶̛͠a͞n͜k̕͠ y̧̨͜o̕u̕u̵͟u͟.͢͢.͟.̢"̴ He managed, able to speak aloud to someone else at long, long last.

His reverie was somewhat interrupted by a soft question from Norman, his horns twitching as he listened in.  _“We should probably try to get back to the village now, so… who’s carrying Bendy? I doubt he’s ready to walk just yet…”_ He still bore chains in his hands, but perhaps it _was_ better to have some time to recover before anyone tried to rid him of the last vestiges of his bindings. Were they really prepared to carry him?

Hopeful, he turned his face towards where he could see himself through Sammy’s mask and produced a little croon. He hadn’t been carried since he’d been a little toon demon, before the machine had brought him here. That _had_ been real, right..? Either way, he knew he was much larger now, but he missed it so, and if ever there was a time he wanted the comfort and security of being carried in someone’s arms, it was now.

“I’ll do that…” Sammy murmured, his voice soft and warm as he gathered the spindly demon up. Bendy squeaked a little, before nuzzling in with a gurgled sigh, legs dangling out to Sammy’s right. “You’re so _light…_ We should all have something to eat after this…” Eat? All? Him too? A new hope blossomed to join the rest that now flowered in him, and it must have shown through, as Norman produced a slight chuckle and patted his head.

_“Yes, you as well - but you should take it slow. Too much too fast, and you might not be able to keep it down.”_ Bendy whined a little, but he nodded. Much as he wanted to wolf down as much as he could find, he really didn’t like the sound of not being able to keep it all in his stomach where it belonged. _“Good…”_ With matters apparently decided, Norman began to lead the way back out, carrying Sammy’s axe for him. When had that changed hands? Bendy hadn’t noticed - but it didn’t matter. He was _OUT!_

The volume of Bendy’s ecstatic jubilation through the ink had woken something - several small, jabbering somethings. Bendy had never heard them with his own horns before, but they were unmistakable. A flash of alarm reached him from Sammy, and Norman seemed to be tensing. The shamblers had already spotted them, charging, and only Norman was armed. What could he do?! He didn’t want his rescuers to get hurt - but he couldn’t even _walk_ yet!

Lowering his horns, he snarled at the Butchers, shoving the grating of his displeasure at them through the ink. Strange inky patterns began to creep across the surfaces around them all while Norman joined in with a threatening shriek as he got in the gang’s way and lashed out at the first one to strike.

Sammy held him tighter, the protectiveness of that gesture bolstering Bendy’s spirits, and the shimmering patterns darkened. Mid-grapple with Norman, the gang just… popped, startling all of them - Bendy included. Had _he_ done that? Sammy sure seemed to think so, if the startled thanks the former human’s mind sent his way was any cue.

He’d been useful! His horns lifted at that thought, and he emitted a gurgly croon as they began to move once again. Knowing the gang weren’t properly in their many shells helped too - much as they’d had their differences, he was sure neither he nor they would have wished any of this on one another. This was nothing personal, just… survival.

For some reason, he even felt a little less frail, arms not quite as limp, but the ever-present hunger still clawed at his gut like a rabid creature. The patterns faded, his energy not yet enough to maintain them, but it seemed the urgency was gone. Slipping into a vague doze, his awareness faded.


	29. Begin Anew

The next Bendy knew more than dimly was a flicker of concern from Sammy. What was going on? Peering through Sammy’s mask, Bendy stared in astonishment as he realised they were already almost to the village, the gap in the ceiling looming.

“If you just throw us up there, how’re you going to get back yourself? I’m not just leaving you behind!” Sammy was insisting, while Norman’s body language seemed stubborn. It was a good question… How  _ were _ they going to get the heaviest member of their party up there? Calling for a rope might not be enough… Maybe something bigger, though?

Unsure how to word his idea, Bendy chirped and broadcast an image of a crate to Sammy, with ropes tied through holes at each corner. If they got out and someone could make such a thing, surely that could hold Norman’s weight! For a moment, he worried that his idea had been too garbled - but then Sammy nodded, the echo of a grin reaching the demon through the ink as his friend began to explain the idea to Norman.

_ Approval. _ He basked in it, from Sammy’s more expressive glee to Norman’s more subtle satisfied whirr. He was doing things right - he was helping, and he was making people  _ happy. _ That was what he was supposed to do, right? Either way, it was far, far better than languishing alone, and it fed a warm, pleasant glow inside him.

His jubilant musings, and the sticky purr they provoked, were abruptly interrupted. With a solution proposed, Norman had opted to grab Sammy up and  _ hurl _ him upwards with no further preamble, Bendy still in tow.

Demon and musician squawked, a staticky chuckle beneath and behind them as they landed with a skid. That hurt a bit, but there were far worse things than one’s face smacking against the floor, and it still meant he was  _ free. _ It also apparently meant it was time to learn some more interesting words from Sammy, Bendy’s horns perking up in keen fascination as he wondered what a smug mud-guzzling gobshite was, among other muttered mysteries.

* * *

With the aid of the astonished lost ones, it didn’t take too long to construct their Projectionist-lifting contraption. However, due to a distinct lack of any pulleys in the area, the lifting was going to have to be manual. With so many lost around, at least there were plenty of volunteers, but the ropes were still unpleasantly rough on the hands as Norman was heaved up.

Some of those pulling had had to leap across the hole in order to haul him up evenly from their corners, but they proved to be remarkably agile despite their fate. Not to mention, having a task like this seemed to inject a sense of purpose for the time being - something they direly needed.

Norman’s light was bright in an unrepentant whirring smile, and Sammy couldn’t stay too irritated with him. Huffing a little sigh, he’d have rolled his eyes if he still had any. “Very funny. A little more warning next time, okay?” He requested, hints of both exasperation and amusement in his tone. Considering the tinny snicker he received in response, though, it seemed Norman was making no promises on that score.

“Come on, then, let’s see what we can do about food.” How  _ was _ Norman going to eat? He didn’t have a  _ face, _ let alone a mouth! Asking might just be redundant, though, when he was likely to witness the answer firsthand.

The lost, as it happened, had access to more than just soup - that lost Sammy’d glimpsed fishing earlier hadn’t been doing so just to mimic half-forgotten pastimes. The fish may have been as inky-toony as everything else, but the prospect of it still brought a fresh gurgle to Sammy’s stomach.

He didn’t even mind that the lost wanted him to sing for this supper - he’d have performed for them anyway, and his mood was so bright right then that he wasn’t sure he clearly remembered having such a feeling before. He’d done something  _ far _ more significant than stealing some overalls this time. He’d not only befriended quite possibly the most helpful people in the studio, he’d  _ rescued _ one of them - one who’d saved his sorry behind before. He’d lifted him from a fate he wouldn’t have wished on even Drew himself - and held him in his arms as he carried him to safety.

What a momentous feeling it was to think on, even without factoring in just how much he’d come to care for the demon. Bendy had been right there with him almost from the start, supporting him even in spite of his own terrible plight. Sammy wasn’t entirely sure he could have done the same, were their positions reversed.

His thoughts didn’t linger too long on such things, not while he could trail his gaze along so many faces reflecting enjoyment of his music while he sang. There they were, amidst so much misery, smiling because of  _ him. _ Even Bendy, doubtless still in pain, was beaming at him, his smile unstrained. This was precious - and the kind of precious he so hoped would repeat again and again, building them up to something better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, all of you, for giving me so much feedback and for enjoying my story - it's really put a smile on my face so many times as I've been writing this. :D  
> Don't worry, though, this isn't the end - up now: Striving for the Sun.


End file.
